Arkham: Inquisition
by Andrew the Second
Summary: Trista Martin had studied serial killers for a psych mag for years, but her new assignment might be even more disturbing. She has been sent to Gotham, home of the infamous Arkham Asylum, a hospital for the criminally insane which houses some of the most dangerous and eccentric criminals in the world. An examination and reinterpretation of some of the greatest villains of all time
1. Chapter 1

1

Arkham Asyulm for the criminally insane is officially known as the Elizabeth Arkham Mental Health Reformatory. The main office had originally been the ancestral home of the Arkham family until the early 1900's before it was converted into a home for the mentally ill by Amadeus Arkham. As Trista Martin, psychological journalist, walked into what was the sitting room of the massive and ancient house; a few doctors in lab coats were talking quietly near a hanging Persian rug while a bored-looking man sat behind a long desk protected by bullet proof glass. Pleasant classical music could be heard over the loud speaker, occasionally broken by a page for a doctor or a request for a nurse to station E. The place had a strange anachronistic look to it, combining antiquity with modern technology. She made a note to do some research into the history of this house as she approached the long desk where a large man in pink scrubs was doing his best to ignore her, instead focusing on a particularly interesting cuticle on his left index finger. Trista was about to get his attention when the double doors behind the man swung inward and a female doctor who looked to be in her fifties came into the glassed-in office. The woman looked clean but coarse, age lines defining the shapes of her features like bold strokes of an artist's pen. She looked over her glasses at Trista and curled her lip as though she'd seen a particularly large bug.

"Ms. Martin?" She said with a harsh Chicago accent.

Trista nodded in agreement and the doctor looked at her watch as though to confirm her arriving on time and motioned to the door to the left of the glassed-in desk and said, "You're early. Wait for the beep and come inside." The bored man reached down below the desk without looking and a piercing beep broke out as a small red light came on over the door.

Trista double checked she had everything before making her way inside. She'd been through this routine a few times before. Each time Trista came to a prison or mental asylum with her unique request they'd pull her aside and give her the "what's a nice girl like you doing in a place like this?" routine. Most administrators played it in the initial phone call and left it at that but Arkham has been particularly stubborn. She had begun considering bringing lawyers in to grease the hinges on this place. They either have something to hide or they just don't like the idea of some nosy reporter coming into their space asking questions.

The name on the door said Dr. Ruth Adams PhD, Chief Psychological Administrator. Inside was a generously sized office with tasteful paintings and a small tree in a pot in the corner. Dr. Adams sat behind her desk and motioned to the chair across from her for Trista to take. She sat down and smoothed her brown Nordstrom skirt as the doctor began opening files on her desk. Trista began to examine Dr. Adams, looking for clues to her personality. She noticed her eyes were slate blue and her glasses sat down toward the end of her nose. She has a slightly discolored patch on the left side of her forehead, perhaps a birthmark. No wedding ring; probably divorce. Based on her attitude, the fact that she led Trista to her own office to talk, and her indifference to her presence; Dr. Ruth Adams is a dominating alpha personality who uses her title and aggression to control people. The best way to work with a dominant type is to give them the illusion of control, let them think they're calling the shots. A false air of submission is guaranteed to go undetected. Dr. Adams reached down and opened a drawer, producing a copy of the last issue of Cognition. Trista had written her last article in that issue before embarking on this new venture.

__Clearly Dr. Ruth is trying to make me feel self-conscious by parading my work in front of me.__ She thought, subtly showing growing discomfort which she didn't actually feel. __Let her think she's getting to me__.

Adams set the magazine down on the desk and said, "I picked this up at the news stand after you called with your request. You interviewed Ed Kempner, the Tulsa Slasher. I understand he was your 8th interview in a series of articles about famous serial killers and their psychological profiles. Do you enjoy exploiting murderers for your own financial gain? Do you get a kind of thrill from it?"

__This lady didn't waste any time getting to the point, that's good.__ Trista thought. "I write the articles the magazines set for me. My series on criminal behavior has been popular lately."

Dr. Adams looked unfazed and said, "And now you want to include my patients in your little sideshow?"

__So she's playing it hard and fast. Trying to brow beat me with her tough guy act. Belittling my work and placing herself not only above me but above everything I care about.__ Trista squirmed slightly in her chair, displaying the signs of timid anxiety Dr. Adams must be used to seeing from people she grills.

"Cognition is a psychological journal, not a tabloid. The articles published are professional and impersonal. I'll admit I find criminal psychology fascinating but I can assure you I approach this with the utmost professionalism. It is not my intent to 'exploit' the subjects of my articles, as you say."

Dr. Adams looked into the files before her, fuming silently. Trista made sure look anywhere but the doctor's eyes, another subordinate visual cue. "You have a masters in psychology, yes?"

Trista was a little surprised Dr. Adams had looked into her background but that was fine, she had looked into Adams' as well. She'd been at the asylum for 20 years and had survived the infamous hostage situation here when the inmates took over. She was as tough as they come, but she was getting old and her sense of superiority is easy enough to exploit. "That's right" Trista said with a surprised look.

"Were you attempting a doctorate?" She asked with a sharp tone that almost snapped like a bull whip.

"Yes that's right."

"Why haven't you completed it?" She asked indifferently.

"That doesn't seem relevant."

"Did you run out of money? Was that it? Did mommy and daddy cut you off? Is that why you took a job writing hack pieces for a penny-saver psych mag?"

Trista could feel the heat in her cheeks rising right on cue. "I wanted a change of scenery. College was getting to be monotonous so I decided to see where my masters could take me. I was offered the job at Cognition thanks in part to my own personal blog I kept about my observations and analysis. I was getting through school with a combination of academic scholarships, grants, and student loans. Now, could we please stick to the reason I'm here?"

Adams gave Trista a sour glare and began turning through her files again. It was time to start steering the conversation toward the end goal. The best way to control a conversation is by asking questions.

"Did you receive my list?" Trista asked timidly.

Adams held a paper out so she could look it over and ignored her question, saying, "Do you believe I am unaware of the notoriety certain patients here carry? Do you know how many reporters and journalists I turn away in a given week? This is not a zoo. These men and women are patients with severe mental problems not the least of which stems from a need to garner attention and infamy with elaborate and theatrical personas. I'm sure you can see the negative impact a member of the press offering them a chance to perform would have?"

Trista stiffened as though hardening her resolve; this was Adams' end game move. "Dr. Adams, I can appreciate your concern for your patients and I can assure you these articles will be published with respect to their mental recoveries. This will be for a psychology centered magazine with a relatively small readership which expects well informed and professional articles. As you know, I have a background in the study of psychology and have never exaggerated or exploited the infamy of my subjects for broader appeal. These articles will be written for the express purpose of examining and studying the super criminal phenomenon."

Dr. Adams studied Trista over her glasses, unconvinced but running out of reasons to turn her away. "You understand many of our patients pose considerable danger, even while restrained. We have their threat level classified by a scale of 1 to 5. A level 1 patient is one which has shown no violent tendencies before or after their admittance here. A level 2 patient has been convicted of a violent crime before arriving but has not displayed any violent tendencies since being admitted as a patient. A level 3 patient has been convicted of murder before being admitted here but has made no threats or displayed violent behavior since being admitted. A level 4 patient has committed violent acts against either patients or staff members since being admitted. A level 5 patient has critically injured or killed a staff member or patient since being admitted. Many of the patients you have requested to speak with are level 4 and 5 threats." She searched the file and brought out a paper which she looked over.

"According to your formal request, the patients listed were as follows,

patient 7436, Edward Nigma, alias The Riddler, a level 3 threat;

patient 2322, Harvey Dent, alias Two-Face, a level 3 threat;

patient 5225, Jack Singer, alias Anarky, a level 2 threat;

patient 2556, Roman Sionis, alias Black Mask, a level 4 threat;

patient 2529, John Doe, a level 3 threat;

patient 2762, Waylon Jones, alias Killer Croc, a level 5 threat;

patient 3473, Garfield Lynns, alias Firefly, a level 4 threat;

patient 7489, Ivy Woods, alias Poison Ivy, a level 5 threat;

patient 3327, Johnathan Crane, alias Scarecrow, a level 4 threat,

patient 9229, Victor Zasaz, a level 5 threat;

patient 9387, Maximilian Zenon, alias Maxim Zeus, a level 4 threat;

and finally patient 5653, known only as the Joker, a level 6 threat."

Trista looked genuinely surprised. "A level 6?"

Dr. Adams' face seemed to darken as though remembering something traumatic. "The Joker is a special case. He's been placed on the strictest security measures and isolated from all but the most necessary human contact. Suffice to say, you won't be given access to him."

Trista was intrigued and a bit disappointed, the Joker had been one of the motivating cases behind this project. "Isn't that a bit harsh? How can you claim to be treating him while he is being isolated?"

All the dislike Dr. Adams displayed for Trista came flooding back. "This is considered part of his treatment and it is no business of yours."

Trista almost heard her add "young lady" to the end of that statement, like a blue-hair lecturing a teenager about dangerous boys.

Dr. Adams returned the papers to her file and closed it, saying, "I've decided to allow you to conduct one interview for now. I will be monitoring you at all times during the process and we will be receiving an advance copy of your article. If I detect even a hint of 'hack and slash' I'll have lawyers on you and your people with a 'cease and desist' order. Understood?"

Trista nodded with a smile she hoped wouldn't look too smug. "And who will be the patient?" She asked. This had been the point she was working toward with her timid act. Adams' dominating nature would react to anyone intruding on her space as a usurper, yet Trista's request was too reasonable to deny completely, so she had been counting on getting limited access at first but it couldn't be an easy target, it would have to be one of the more dangerous patients for her to prove herself against and earn her full access. The only way to get Adams to give her that would be to make her think Trista was weak and would be scared off by a more dangerous patient. Dr. Adams wouldn't be able to resist a chance to scare away a pesky reporter by putting her in front of Mr. Zasaz or Killer Croc or even the Joker. Dr. Ruth looked across the list she had gotten earlier and seemed to grin subtly as she came across a name.

"You'll be interviewing Waylon Jones, a level 5 threat. He hasn't made any progress in years and has hardly said a word to any of our staff. Do you want to know how he earned his level 5 status?" Dr. Adams gave her a serpent-like grin. "He attacked and subdued Mr. Cash, an orderly who had been restraining him while Mr. Jones was being moved to a different room. During the attack, Mr. Jones dislocated Mr. Cash's left arm and began biting his hand. When the other orderlies arrived, Mr. Cash was unconscious and Mr. Jones had already consumed most of the flesh from that hand."

Trista allowed a look of shock to flash across her face, while inside she was grinning triumphantly. Dr. Adams seemed satisfied with her plan and went about putting her files away and writing down a date and time. "You will be given access on this day at this time, no sooner or later. You will receive your access badge from the personnel office and you will of course be searched. I suggest you bring a recording device as pencils and pens will be confiscated as will any object which can be stolen and weaponized in any way including paper clips and staples."

Trista took the sheet with the date and time and stood to leave. "Good day Ms. Martin." Dr. Adams said with all the emotion of a yawn and returned to her papers.

Dr. Louis Hilleman had just poured himself another cup of coffee when the bored man in the pink scrubs joined him at the coffee maker.

"Hey, Lou. You get a load of the reporter who came in earlier?"

Louis wore half-moon glasses and had chestnut hair that was just beginning to thin at the top. He took a sip of his coffee and said, "Another one? What about her?"

The man in pink gave Louis a smirk as he poured about 9 packets of sugar in his cup. "She's pretty hot. Heard she writes for a psych mag. She's in the chamber of death with Brass-balls Adams right now."

He looked down the hall toward Dr. Adams' office, or the Chamber of Death as the other employees called it. "Guess I'll keep an eye out." Louis said noncommittally as he headed toward the office.

He'd been working here as a therapist for almost 3 years now and he'd had more than a few trips into the chamber of death himself. He'd seen reporters come and go and it didn't take more than one invitation to the office of Dr. Ruth Adams to chase them off. He was about to enter his office when Dr. Adams' door opened and he was intrigued by the attractive young woman now exiting into the hall. She was tall, blonde, and had piercing blue eyes which locked with his momentarily before she passed by. __Shit.__ Louis thought as he watched her go. __Everything was going so well. Why did __she__have to happen? __He wondered if he should go after her but his responsibilities and his doubts pushed his mind onto other things. He had turned away when something gripped him inside and he found himself turning back and following after her. He spotted her at the main desk signing out. As he walked up he realized he had no excuse to talk with her and fear grabbed him in a choke-hold. It seemed he stood at the doors for an eternity when a voice called out.

"Dr. Hilleman! I just paged you. Some prescriptions were just delivered for you."

It was one of the interns at the main desk, a young man of about 20 with pockmarks and a thin beard. The woman looked up at him from the sign in sheet and he felt everything in him loosen. He strode over confidently and picked up his package from the boy at the desk.

"Thank you, sir." He said politely, meaning it as thanks for much more than the delivery. He looked over at the young woman and smiled.

"I don't believe we've met, are you new here?" The woman gave him a small smile and shook her head. Those penetrating blue eyes locked with his confidently and Louis suddenly felt nervous again.

"I'm actually here as a journalist. I came to interview some of your more notorious patients for a psychological journal." She slipped a hand into her purse and came out with a business card. Louis took the card and glanced at it respectfully. Trista Martin. Louis looked at the blue of her eyes as he repeated it to himself in his mind, an old trick for remembering people's names.

"I guess you're here to see Dr. Adams then? Did she give you a hard time?"

Trista looked away with what looked like a smirk.

"She gave me what I wanted, and that's what counts."

Louis was shocked. "You got through?" He said with disbelief. "No one gets through Dr. 'Brass-balls' Adams. How did you manage that?"

Trista brushed her hair back prettily and smiled. "Maybe I'll tell you some time. And you are?"

To his horror, Louis' mind couldn't seem to recall his own name and he stammered a bit. "Louis…. Hilleman! Louis Hilleman…. Dr. Louis Hilleman!" He tried to laugh it off but inside he was kicking himself furiously. Trista only smiled and shouldered her purse.

"Alright Louis, I'll see you around."

"Alright, Ms. Martin. It is miss, isn't it?"

She nodded with a smile as she turned away. Louis took a deep breath and watched her go. He looked at the intern behind the desk who was smirking at him. The kid made a whistle noise followed by a mock explosion, referring to Louis' fumbled attempts at fraternizing. Louis glared at him and asked the kid if he shouldn't be filing something right now before heading back into the hall.

Trista's room at the extended stay hotel was cramped and already cluttered. She had all her research supplies and reference photos spread out over her work area. The TV was on but Trista was letting it play to an empty room as she worked. The hotel room was dark aside from the flickering television and the light of her computer. Her blonde hair pulled back behind her head, she was scrolling through news reports and police files on Waylon Jones. The chinese she had ordered was approaching room temperature on the desk beside her as a news report went on talking to an indifferent room. The only other sound was the noise of Gotham coming in through the open window. Police sirens, car horns, dogs barking, the constant hum of engines and machinery punctuated by the occasional gun shot, all mingled with the chatter of news anchors discussing the news of the day. The suit she'd worn to her meeting with Dr. Adams was hung over the back of the cheap hotel couch behind her and she sat in an under shirt and panties as she worked.

As far as she could tell Waylon Jones, better known as Killer Croc, was born in Louisiana to Haitian immigrant parents who would later leave him in the care of his Aunt. He was born with a rare skin disorder known as Epidermal Hyperkeratosis which makes his skin extremely thick and dry, giving it the appearance of scales. Not much is known about his childhood but he came to Gotham several years ago, although no one is sure when exactly he arrived. The first reports of homeless men turning up dead and partially eaten began coming in shortly before two sewer workers disappeared. Rumors of alligators in the sewers began making the rounds and people started to get nervous. According to the police report, around the same time Croc broke into the Gotham underworld through illegal fighting tournaments where he quickly earned a reputation for brutality. After that he gained a kind of following and through that formed the gang he would use to make a name for himself. Croc's gang quickly gained a reputation for boldness and ruthlessness as they carved a bloody swathe through the Gotham underworld. Killer Croc himself was even more brutal and savage than his gang, frequently taking on rivals personally and indulging in cannibalism. He was quickly becoming the most wanted and most feared man in the underworld, both by the police and the other crime families. It was after the daughter of a wealthy Gotham business man disappeared and Croc's gang claimed responsibility that a manhunt was issued by the GCPD. After a coordinated effort by the GCPD and the Batman, Killer Croc was brought in and his gang dispersed. The only remains they found of the girl were a few chewed up bones and wads of hair. Since being found criminally insane by the courts, he's been in Arkham, kept under strict security measures. The attack on the orderly Cash was in the papers but no other attacks seemed to come out. This was a perfect first interview to test her skills and prove herself to Adams. Looking at the police photo of him she felt an interesting heaviness in her stomach. He looked like he'd been chewed up and spit out, flashing a predatory grin full of crooked teeth filed to points. In her mind she was imaging those teeth tearing the flesh from the hand of a screaming orderly and she had to turn away. On the television, the news anchor introduced a new story on the Batman. Trista got up and sat in front of the television as the anchor reported that the Batman had been responsible for the seizing of nearly 10 million dollars in black market goods at the Gotham harbor. As an image of the bat-signal came on screen she instinctively looked out the window to see if it was up in the sky. She'd been here two nights and hadn't yet seen the infamous spot light. The news had moved on to the stock market and she turned it off, turning the room from a flickering blue to the dull orange of the city lights in the window. As she lay on her bed considering how to approach her upcoming interview, a spot light flashed into the sky, projecting the silhouette of a bat onto the low hanging smog of Gotham.

The date on the paper Dr. Adams had given her wasn't for another few days so Trista decided to talk with the GCPD about Jones. She knew Adams would put a road block between her and any patient files or staff members she could talk to so she felt the police would be the next logical place to get an idea of what he was like. After tangoing with the front desk a bit she managed to get a meeting with Commissioner Jim Gordon to talk about getting police files and interview tapes of Croc. When she entered his office, he was sitting behind stacks of paperwork in an office as cluttered as Trista's own. Gordon himself looked about as old as her father but he was solidly built and, while a bit frayed at the edges, looked as tough as any street cop she'd known. After brief introductions she told him about her project and her appointment with Killer croc. At that he gave her a look he might give his teenaged daughter if she'd brought home a pierced biker for a date.

"You have to know," he began, leaning back in that grandfatherly way, "that Croc is a cold-blooded killer who would snap your neck if you gave him the chance. He's an animal. How much do you think you can get out of him?"

Trista smirked and disregarded his concern. "Even if he is snapping and foaming at the mouth during our interview, all I can do is record it and include it in the article. I'm trying to gather as much information as I can about his crimes before I meet with him personally."

Gordon seemed to realize she wasn't backing down and threw up his hands in surrender. "Well you're welcome to our case files and footage."

Trista pulled out a small notebook and added, "I'll also need to speak with his arresting officer, his lawyer, and anyone who had any prolonged contact with him." Gordon shook his head at a loss but agreed to her terms.

"You're really serious about this? You've got guts, I'll give you that. Just promise me you won't give him a chance to make me regret helping you."

Trista agreed and Gordon walked her out into the bull pen where half-a-dozen cops were working or talking.

"Simmens!" A thin cop with a moustache looked up from his work and stood. "Can you take Ms. Martin to the records room?"

"Yes sir." He stood and held out his hand to Trista as he came over. Trista shook it gingerly as Gordon explained, "This woman is a journalist researching the Killer Croc case. Simmens here was the arresting officer on the case."

Simmens looked at her with surprise and before he could go into the old "whats a nice girl like you" bit, she cut him off with questions about his history on the force; leading him toward the records room.

The records room was as dim and quiet as a library but had the canned space feeling of a bank vault. Simmens told her about the day Croc was arrested as she went through files, setting aside the relevant papers.

"He was huge, that was the first thing I noticed. I remember thinking we might not have cuffs that would fit him until I saw him rip through the first set they tried. Thank god the Bat was there. He did most of the leg work that day. Croc was hiding out in an old sewage pumping facility that he was using as a base and let me tell you; the idea of sloshing through those pitch black pipes and corridors with nothing but a pistol and a flash light, knowing that thing was in there somewhere, I try not to think about it. We just covered the exits while the Batman went in after Croc. When he came out, the Bat had Croc tied up with this weird chain that looked too thin to hold him, but when Croc came to and started thrashing around, that sucker held. I don't know where he gets that stuff, honestly."

Trista held up the mug shot of Waylon from that day and said, "Did he say anything to you?"

Simmens looked at the picture and his throat worked as he swallowed. "Just your typical stuff. Threats, complaints, a little bargaining."

He looked around to see if anyone else was there before saying, "Off the record, me and some of the other guys, we thought we'd see what he was really made of, you know? Sometimes when we bring in tough guys like that, a few minutes of the old "club med" treatment breaks them back down to our level, but not with this guy. He took his licks but he only chuckled at us when we asked if he'd had enough. Maybe it was a chuckle, I don't know. It sounded like a stubborn drain unclogging. He'd look at us through the blood and swelling and smile with those damn pointed teeth of his and say, 'Maybe just a few minutes more boys, I don't think I've got it yet.' We went on for most of an hour and every time we stopped he'd say he didn't quite get it or that he'd had it but forgot. We were all sweating like geezers in a sauna and he was bleeding all over but he just kept grinning and chuckling that weird guttural noise. He really was a monster. I've never seen anything like it."

Trista looked up at him and Simmens stared off into the distance as though remembering a nightmare. She slammed the file drawer to bring him out of it and told him she had what she needed. That night she watched the interrogation tapes and began working out how she would approach her meeting with Killer Croc.

Trista had already worked out a system for interviewing psychopaths and criminals. The most important thing to do when preparing was to get as much information on their crimes and backgrounds as you could. That way if they start trying to bullshit you, you can call them on it. Every killer she'd talked to, they were all like lions in a zoo. Captivity had a way of declawing them and the only way they could get their kicks was to try and shock you. As long as you familiarized yourself with everything they did, anything they say would either be a rehashing of what you already knew or a lie. One of the reasons she pitched this new project was because she was getting bored with serial killers. Once you get over the media hype, they're all the same. Just boys in men's bodies; pathetic, selfish, and worst of all predictable. She could remember the tension she felt as she spoke with her first killer. But each one had the same attitude, the same behaviors, the same hang-ups. We're expected to believe these men were wolves in sheep's clothing, predators with cunning and power, but they all end up being just the opposite when you actually meet them. It was disillusioning to say the least. Trista only hoped these super criminals wouldn't be as disappointing.

Trista arrived at the appointed time wearing a conservative brown and green skirt and jacket. She had two cases with her; one contained her recording device and files, the other was a humidifier and a small fountain. After she had received her badge from the personnel desk, Dr. Adams met her outside one of the two additions to the main Arkham house where the patients were kept along with Dr Hilleman and another older man Trista hadn't met. Adams looked at her gear disapprovingly but said nothing as she led her toward the interview room. Louis gave Trista a thumbs-up before he and the other doctor went into an observation room next door. As Trista began setting up her equipment in the small room she asked when the patient would be arriving.

"He'll be here soon enough. I and two others will be observing your interaction in the next room. Any breach of security procedures will result in the termination of the interview. Has that thing been checked out?" She was looking at Trista's humidifier.

Trista ignored the contempt in Adams' voice and went on setting up. "I'm going to need any and all indoor plants in here."

Dr. Adams seemed to get flustered and began to protest but Trista cut in. "I'm trying to create a comfortable environment for your patient, one which will help the interview process, so if you don't mind, I'd like to have this room ready when he gets here."

Dr. Adams looked ready to pop a vessel but had nothing to say. Trista went back to work, trying not to let Adams see her smile as she did.

The interview room looked more like a jungle now, the air thick and the sound of running water echoing off the concrete walls. Trista stepped out into the hall to wait for Croc to be brought in. When she heard the announcement that a level 5 patient was being brought to meeting room 4, she slipped into another empty room and watched through the crack in the door as they brought him in. She wanted to get a chance to see him before he saw her. They had him strapped down tightly to what looked like a gurney that rolled upright. He must have stood nearly 7 feet tall and his body was toned, mahogany brown, and muscled thickly. He looked like the twisted trunk of a tree; thick, hairless, and gnarled. Dr. Adams walked with the orderlies that were wheeling him toward the meeting room and as they got there she went inside, possibly to see if Trista was ready. When she came back out she looked flustered but waved the orderlies in. Trista got her files ready, messed her hair up a bit and re-buttoned her shirt wrong before heading out. She burst into the room as they were locking Jones into his chair, looking like she'd just run a mile. Her foot got tangled in the cord for the humidifier and she fell sprawling to the floor, throwing papers everywhere. She began to apologize when Adams cut her off.

"Where have you been? I told you to be ready!"

Croc watched Trista with interest as the flustered young woman tried to explain herself to an enraged and indifferent Dr. Adams.

"I don't want to hear it! You told me you were going to handle this professionally and seriously and you show up with demands and odd requests only to disappear and show up falling over yourself! I have half a mind to call this whole thing off!"

Trista looked pained and begged Adams to reconsider, all while watching Croc's reaction out of the corner of her eye. When Dr. Adams finally left, Trista almost had to call up a few tears to get her to go along with it. She mumbled an apology to Jones who only watched her pick up the papers and stack them neatly on the table.

After taking a breath and fixing her hair she looked up at Croc gingerly who seemed to look down at her the way someone would look at a child covered in dirt who'd just been scolded by their mother. This was, of course, exactly what she'd been going for. People with his condition have a problem with dry skin, so she brought in the humidifiers to make him more comfortable. He grew up in the bayou and seemed to associate negative feelings with people and man-made structures, so she brought in the plants to put him at ease. His preference for the sewers meant he felt more comfortable around water, so she brought the fountain to create the sounds he was used to. He was a brawler and a self-made monster that saw enemies everywhere, so if she was going to get close to him, she had to be as non-threatening as possible. Everything was set up in Trista's favor and all she had to do was get him to talk. He was watching her but not in a predatory way and that's the way she hoped to keep it.

"I'm not sure if they told you already, but I'm with a magazine. I just wanted to ask you some questions. Is that okay?"

Croc shifted in his chains and smirked the way an adult playing along with a child might. "I don't see why I should. Nobody wants to talk to me, they just want to stand outside my cage and gawk." Croc's voice was like wet gravel on asphalt and Trista made sure he saw how intimidated she was by it.

"__I__ want to talk to you. I came here to find out who you really are." She flashed a meek smile and he scoffed.

"You had them chain me up like a dog because you're scared I'll gobble you up. You're no different from anyone else who says they want to talk." Croc looked away disinterestedly and Trista looked pained.

__I'm losing him. He's forcing my hand. I didn't want to do this. __"They are the ones who said you had to be chained up like that. Is it uncomfortable? Do you want me to take them off?"

He looked at her with mild surprise as she approached him carefully and examined the chains. Standing this close she could hear his breathing and felt a powerful urge to run. As she reached for the first lock a loud buzz came from the door and she jumped with a small squeak. A voice came over the intercom, Dr. Adams was not happy.

"Trista Martin, if you open those restraints, security will be escorting you from the building immediately and this interview will never happen. Am I understood?"

Trista looked frustrated but internally she was relieved. __Saved by the bell. __"I only want to make Mr. Jones more comfortable."

She watched as Croc's face softened as he looked at her and hardened when Dr. Adams' voice came into the room.

"Security measures must be followed at all times, Ms. Martin, regardless of our patient's comfort levels. Now get on with it."

The voice clicked off and Trista looked at Croc with an apologetic expression of regret. She sat back down and sighed. "This isn't going well at all, Mr. Jones." She said dejectedly.

"Hey, don't let old Ruthy get to ya. You wanna talk? That's fine. Let's talk." Trista looked up at him with a hopeful smile and got her recording device ready.

"Okay Waylon…" He cut her off gently.

"Just call me Croc. Everyone does."

She smiled and said, "Okay, Croc, let's start with your childhood. What can you tell me about it?"

Croc shifted into a comfortable position, at least as comfortable as the chains would allow and began.

"You ever hear that joke about humanitarians?"


	2. Chapter 2: Croc

Humanitarian

If a vegetarian is someone who eats vegetables, what does a humanitarian eat? I think the Joker told me that one. It fits pretty well I think. This condition of mine is rare. My skin I mean, not the other thing. It's called epi-somthin' hyper-carrot-itis-osis or something. Fish skin in other words, or lizard skin might be closer. I don't have to tell you my folks were surprised when I came out looking like I'd been baked in an oven set to broil, screaming and bleeding from cracks like old asphalt. What did they know? They were just a couple of Haitian immigrants living off my mom's sister. What little I know about my folks I had to hear from my aunt, and she was more than happy to explain to me all the ways they screwed up in life, particularly when it came to me. They were scared at first, seeing me like that. They thought it was an omen, or that I might be cursed. It wasn't until they got the bill for my birth and resulting care that they decided to dump me and hop back over to their home land, free and clear. Well you can just imagine how thrilled old auntie Nadia was to find herself in possession of a screaming orphan and a sky-high doctor bill. I don't know why she didn't just toss me in an orphanage and send the bill to my folks, but I can guess. Given my condition, adoption was out of the question for me and no orphanage wants to take on an 18 year special-needs burden. As for the bill, my folks didn't exactly leave a mailing address and I'm pretty sure my Aunt had a hand in my parents illegal entry into this country which puts her square in the authority's cross-hairs. So we were pretty much stuck for life, a fact she made sure I knew just about every day.

I'm sure you can guess my childhood was pretty rough. All I remember was hurting so bad that I didn't think anything could hurt more, but it could, and it did. My skin made the heat unbearable and it was always splitting and getting infected on its own. Combined with the regular swats, shoves, and slaps my aunt gave me whenever I happened to be in arms reach made me think pain was about the only thing I'd ever feel. We only had a tar-paper shack out in the bayou with no running water and only enough electricity to run a few lights and the TV. You can see why I might not look back fondly on those years. I didn't go to school till I was 8, and only then because the government finally decided to check in on me. You'd think that old bitch would have jumped at the chance to get me out of the house 5 days a week. Too much paperwork to get me in, I guess. Well, school went about as well as you'd expect for a kid who looked like this. I wondered if the other kids knew my auntie because they all started calling me things she said all the time. Lizard boy. Gator kid. Crusty. They called me other names my aunt hadn't thought of too. Like nigger-gator and coon-o-dile. I don't have to tell you it was the white kids who thought of those names. Course it was all the same to me. I'd had 8 years to get used to name calling. I went anyways, stuck to myself and got in the habit of taking the long way home through the swamp. That was about the only place I liked. No people. Cool air. My skin kept most of the bugs from bothering me and I knew to look out for snakes and gators. Sometimes I'd stay out past dark and have to find my way by the moonlight. Auntie didn't care. I could see she was disappointed every time I made it home to darken her doorstep again.

It wasn't until later, I must have been around 13, those white boys started in with the real rough stuff. Pushing me around a circle, throwing me in the swamp, sticking strips of duct tape on me so I'd have to peel it off along with a few patches of skin. Nothing really got to me until that day they followed me into the swamp. I guess one of them had themselves a bright idea to bring along an old metal file. They got around me and held me down while the biggest one took that file to my teeth, turning them into points. Did a shit job of it too. I thought I knew real pain but that was a whole new world of pain. They laughed and laughed while he did it, shouting "Now you're a gator boy! Now you're a real nigger-gator!" and I screamed through the blood that was filling up my mouth. By the time they finished, it was nearly dark and they ran whooping and hollering. My face felt swollen and numb and any movement of my mouth sent shoots of pain through it like a thunderhead. I don't remember getting home but I remember auntie screaming about getting blood on her carpet. It was only after 3 or 4 days that I was able to tell her what happened. She didn't believe me, of course. She claimed I'd done it to myself, trying to get attention like a teenager with a tattoo or a nose ring. That was when the clouds of pain and fear in my mind went from red to black. It was like ink in water. That was when the pain stopped and the hate began. I couldn't eat or drink anything that was too hot or cold or my teeth would ring like alarm bells in my head. I dreaded going back to school. I could hear their laughter as they admired their handy work. I could see the stares of the other kids and the giggles behind cupped hands. Worst of all I could see the reproachful looks of the teachers as they would assume, as my aunt had, that I'd done it in a fit of teenaged rebellion.

I only made it about ten feet through the doors before they spotted me, my hand over my mouth and trying like hell to be see-through. They pushed me outside to get a better look at what they'd done. I remember feeling far away, like someone had turned the volume down on life. Nothing they said or did to me seemed to touch me. But when one of them reached up to pull back my lips I saw my face move and felt the pain as my teeth bit into something warm and soft. My first taste of blood, other than my own I mean. It seemed to light a spark somewhere in me, like a pilot light coming on. A distant scream came and I was running, running for the swamp, my refuge. I could hear more screams and shouts in the distance. They were following me, and that was okay. Get them away from the school. Get them alone. I ran, eyes unfocused and seeing everything at once. Once I had gotten enough distance I stopped and started to circle back, moving quiet this time. I was running on instinct by then. Not thinking but seeing myself think. I felt the heat of the swamp, the sounds of the trees and the life, I felt everything. Most of all I felt them. I got around behind them, they were still shouting out to me. The one I'd bit had torn his shirt to wrap his bleeding finger. He had a hunting knife in his other hand. I moved fast but still silent and took him down in a blitz tackle, grabbing the knife out of his hand. There was a scream before the blood filling his throat turned it into gurgles. The others turned, their faces going from anger to terror in a second. I made it to the next one before anyone could realize what was happening. He stared at me like I'd just asked him a question in some foreign language, even as the knife went through first his cheek and then out his left eye. The other two seemed to reach a compromise with their bodies and started to run. They were clumsy in the thick foliage and I caught up with the first one easily. The knife went into the back of his neck and he dropped like a puppet cut from its strings. By the time he'd stopped twitching the other boy had gotten a good distance. I caught up with him slowly, following the blundering trail he made with ease. I could smell his sweat, or maybe it was his fear. It was like a baking pie to a starving man. You never forget your first time, they say. That was my first hunt. He was screaming for help, but we were pretty deep by that point. No one to hear us but the trees. I was just starting to close the distance when I heard him splash into water. As I mounted the edge of the creek he'd jumped into I could see him thrashing toward the other side, but I also saw what looked like several logs floating toward him on all sides. I knew gators when I saw them and I sat down right there and watched them. Saw them get closer, saw one go under, this one was the biggest I'd ever seen, then the kid was gone for moment. After a few bubbles he exploded out of the water, which had gone a muddy red, screaming and gurgling as the gator started to spin like a football, pulling him under and back up and under. I watched in a daze as it tore more chunks off and the smaller ones got brave enough to try for a few themselves. When they'd finished I don't remember getting up but I'd had an idea. I found each boy and drug them over, tossing them in one at a time, watching the gators pull it apart like chicken wings. It was almost full dark by the time they finished the last one and I just got up and walked off, like someone at a movie when the credits had started to roll. I walked in a daze. I felt like junk-heads must feel after their first hit, or like a color-blind man given true sight for the first time. I wasn't happy, at least not in the way other people say it feels. I felt whole and content for the first time. This was my place.

I walked and walked. Night was on in full and the swamp was alive. Birds called from the trees, crickets sang and frogs grunted. I could hear animals moving around out in the dark, sometimes they sounded bigger than me. The kids used to say this swamp was haunted, full of ghosts. I knew it was night, yet I could see, dimly but clearly. I felt full of energy, nervous and too awake. What I felt was the swamp, the life of the swamp, I knew it somehow. I came to a small pond and went in up to my waist. The water was cool and it felt good on my dry skin. I didn't sleep but I stayed that way, submerged up to my nose, listening to the night sounds of the swamp.

I lived out there for most of a year. I ate what I could catch and drank from the water vines you can find all over, a trick I'd learned from watching hunters. I'd sleep during the day, usually in the water so the bugs wouldn't bother me, then at night I'd slather mud over any exposed skin to protect me and mask my scent. At night the swamp became a secret place. Sometimes I'd hear sounds like voices or howls. One night I saw floating lights, like someone with a flash light in the distance. I could see why they thought this place was haunted. It was after one particularly bad night of foraging that I came across the hunters. They had camped out next to their boat and they had a fire going. I was shaking with hunger and I could smell the meat they were cooking. I knew I had to take them one at a time. I waited and waited until one of them got up and left the circle of the fire. He was peeing into the river they had come down when I slit his throat and stifled his cry. I'd heard them talking and had an idea of how to get the next one. I called out to one of them by name. When he came looking for who had said it I grabbed him and pulled him into the river. Now the last one realized what was happening and came with his gun. I had already slipped out of the river a little ways down and circled around behind him before he could get off a single shot. Once they were dead, I helped myself to their food supplies and watched as the gators took the bodies apart in the river. I didn't think about any of it as murder any more than the gators who'd eaten the bodies. This was nature. So I ate my fill and left the rest. Now I had begun looking for hunters. I had found my ideal prey. I lived for months, maybe even years this way. You don't keep time out there. Nothing existed beyond the next day and night. At first I just killed them and took their food or tools if I needed them. It was only when I was particularly hungry and had just killed a lone hunter, who had brought no food, that I decided to try man flesh. I ate first his legs and arms, then picked his torso clean. I'm sure you might be wondering what human meat tastes like. The closest I've found would be pork, although it's a lot saltier and more metallic. A lot of people eat so much garbage their meat gets tainted by chemical preservatives and sodium. That's why most animals, even the ones known to kill humans, won't eat us. I guess you could call it an acquired taste and leave it at that. As I was eating, I felt driven by something, something primal. I only stopped after I cracked his skull to eat part of his brain. It wasn't disgust at the realization of what I'd done that stopped me, only an overwhelming sense of energy. Not only had I taken this man's life, I had eaten it. I know it sounds like utter shit, but I felt like I'd taken on his life. That night I walked in a daze, my head throbbing and my stomach doing somersaults. I felt too hot and scared for the first time.

What happened next must have been a dream, that's the only way I can explain it. I'd waded into a large pond out to my chest, trying to cool down, when I heard the familiar splash of something sliding into the water on the bank. Turning in a daze, I saw ridges and scales drifting toward me. I didn't feel afraid, I just turned to face the gator as it floated toward me, tag wagging behind it in an S shape. For a moment we just looked at each other, the swamp had gone quiet for the first time. This gator was as big as the one I'd seen tear that boy apart, maybe bigger. As I looked at it I started to see it wasn't a gator, the nose was too wide and it was chunkier. This was a crocodile. Must have been the only one for a thousand miles. I'd dropped my knife after eating the hunter so I had no weapon. I could only wonder if this was where I would die. I felt myself drift back, as I had when the boys had chased me into the swamp. The croc lunged with a thrash of its long tail, jaws opening trying to bite down on my torso. I moved on pure instinct, everything was a blur of scales and water. I had gotten around it and had it in a strangle-hold, my arms just barely long enough to reach around its massive neck. I held and choked it as it thrashed and spun in the water. I started to take bites out of the back of its head, my sharpened teeth cutting through the tough skin easily, and spitting blood and chunks of scaly meat as it tried to shake me. When I got a chunk of it stuck in my throat I let go and fell away, the impact dislodging the meat. I had expected it to round on me again but it was trying to run away, heading for the far shore. Blind with rage and amped up on adrenaline, I charged after it, grabbing its tail before it left the water. It fishtailed and tried to bite me but I dove over the snapping jaws and got a hand hold on its snout just as the jaws clamped shut. I pulled it into a powerful hug and pulled its head straight up, sitting down on the ridges of its back. The monster bucked and snorted but it couldn't shake me. Slowly I pulled its snout back and heard the tendons creak in its neck. Once its head was almost directly over its back I let go of the snout and grabbed its torso beneath me, pulling it into another hug. The croc's tendons started popping like rubber bands and I heard several cracks inside its flailing body. There was one final crunch before the croc went limp in my arms and its snorts stopped. I held it for a long time, so stiff with adrenaline that I couldn't relax. When I let it go the head snapped forward like a whip and slammed onto the dirt. I was so out of it I just passed out right there on its back with the moon shining through the trees.

What happened next was what made me think it had to be a dream. I woke up and it was still full dark. The croc lay silent and still beneath me and I felt a presence around me. I sat up and around me stood a circle of hunched figures. At first I thought they were alligators that had somehow learned to stand of two feet. Their heads were like alligators, but their jaws hung open and limp at their chests. Inside each gaping maw I saw two glowing eyes, like an animal's eyes when the light catches it. They carried long sticks in hands which looked to be claws. I was calm enough to realize they were really men wearing alligator heads and skins, on their hands they had fashioned false claws from what looked like bones and teeth. They stared at me in silence, not even breathing. One of them stepped forward, the largest one, wearing countless necklaces of teeth and bones like trophies. He motioned for me to follow and I did. It all seemed natural, as if it had been planned. I turned back to see the others gathering around the dead croc and lifting it. We walked and walked for what seemed like forever before the trees parted to show a vast clearing with a fire that seemed to burn with green flames. There were others waiting for us and when I came into view they all hooted and howled like wild animals. They were all wearing animal skins and bones and all were black like me. It was like I'd stumbled into Africa by mistake. Their eyes were wide and the pupils seemed to fill them completely. I'd seen crack heads with the same look. They all barked and snapped at each other like wolves in a pack. They dragged the dead croc to the fire and had me sit in front of it as their leader pulled out a stone dagger. He cut into the beast and fished around until he came out with a massive heart, still dripping blood. An attendant came over quickly with a wooden bowl and caught the dripping blood. When it had filled to the brim he brought it to me to drink. I drank without thinking, I remember it was thick and metallic tasting with a strange shock to it, like it had been carbonated. The bowl was passed to the others who drank it hungrily. The leader knelt and offered me the heart, still dripping and wet. I took it and looked at it, still warm, as the blood had been. I thought about how that heart had pushed blood through a body which had tried to kill me. That the blood it had pushed was moving through the mouth and jaws which had tried to tear me apart. Now I held it in my hands and my own was still pumping within me. It had tried to kill me, now it was dead and I lived. I drove my face into the warm muscle, biting and snapping, filling my mouth with its soft meat. The strange men all hooted and cried out in unison.

After the heart had been eaten, the leader lead me to the croc's head as a few other pried the skull open, revealing the brain, small as an apple. He peeled back the wrinkles and revealed a small gland which he plucked with deft fingers. He held it to me and I took it, naturally putting it in my mouth, not to eat, but to chew. They led me over to a hut where an older man sat with my knife. Where he found it I don't know. The gland I had been chewing didn't send me further away but drew me closer to the world, so close I could feel everything, the air moving into my nose, rubbing against the insides of my sinuses, the dirt shifting beneath my feet like stones. Sounds became too loud, even my own heartbeat was like thunder. It looked as though the sun had risen and stood noon high, illuminating everything. I could smell my own nose, the moss on the trees, the sweat of the men around me. That was when they started to cut me.

I only remember flashes after that. Pain. Blood. Standing by the fire, feeling the smoke against my open cuts. Running with the strange men through the swamp, barking and howling like animals. I woke up and the sun was going down, or coming up, I wasn't sure. As I sat up, remembering the dream I felt the pain all over my body. All down my arms, chest, legs, and head in lines and spirals. There seemed to be something hard packed into them before they closed. The blood had dried and was starting to flake off like rust. I thought I might have gotten the cuts running through the swamp like a madman, that mud might have been crammed into the openings. But the patterns they made, well, that was harder to explain. Later, one of the guys in the freak show told me about a tribe in Africa called the Chambri who believed humans evolved from crocodiles who had come on land and learned to walk. They had this ritual, a coming of age for the boys in the tribe. They'd take the kid into a hut and make hundreds of these little cuts all over his body. He'd have to tough it out if he wanted to be a man. They figured if you could deal with that much pain when you were young, the pain later in life would seem like nothing. I think there's something to that. They don't do that anymore. We don't have a right of passage anymore, separating the boys from the men. You had to earn manhood back then, bleed for it. Now they just kick you out the door at 18 and hope for the best. Anyways, once they had all these cuts they'd pack them with clay and tree oil to raise them up so they looked like the ridges on a crocodile. That's the only explanation I've heard that comes close to what I went through and it still makes no goddamn sense.

After that night I felt different. Confident and complete. Everything looked different. I felt like I'd been asleep for weeks and woke up in a different world. I went hunting that night, catching a trio of gator hunters swinging a spotlight along a narrow river. I flipped their boat easily and pulled one of them away, leaving the other two for the alligators. In retrospect, that was the mistake that drove me out of my swamp. One of those guys must have survived somehow and made it back to tell them what he'd seen. That a giant half-man half-gator had attacked and killed his friends. Well I went on hunting for months, unaware of the heat coming my way. It wasn't until I came across a hunting party, this one was the biggest so far, but that wasn't all. These looked different. They wore uniforms, had assault rifles, and looked dead serious. The hunters I'd taken had all been sportsman out for a good time with friends. These men were hunting something, they had authority, and they were scared. I didn't attack them, only watched as they patrolled the swamp in boats and on foot. I could hear them talking into radios, talking about some target and that no one had any sightings to report. I realized I couldn't stay here anymore. More would come and the more I took down the more attention it would attract and the cycle would escalate until they took me out. It was time to go out into the world.

Freak Show

I found train tracks on the outskirts and followed them until a freighter came by and I jumped it to the next town. I killed a hobo for his clothes, he was too dirty to eat. I had to try and remember what it was like in the world, what rules I was expected to follow. I needed clothes, money, and a place to live. I drifted for a while. Killing for food or money. It was in a train yard somewhere north that I met the freak show. It was run by a fellow named Dr. Peter Demit who toured the country displaying his human oddities. They had stopped there on their way to their next show and just about fell over when I walked up to em. They weren't scared of me, they way everyone else was, they looked at me the way you might look at a star athlete or a famous celebrity. They marveled over my filed teeth and patterns of scars. They looked at my skin like it was a talent I'd been born with, instead of a curse. I told em I'd run away from home when I was a kid and just drifted around since, looking for work. They bought it easily enough and wanted me to meet the Doc right away. Dr. Demit was exactly the kind of person you'd expect to run a traveling freak show. Part hippie, part used car salesman and all smile. He looked at me the same way they did, only it was dollar signs behind his eyes. I was fine with the arrangement. I didn't really care about money back then and it gave me something to do. Most of the freaks accepted me right off, and most of them were born with whatever got em in the show. We shared a troubled past and it gave us something to stand together on. The only ones who didn't care for me were a few of the freaks who weren't born freaks. The ones who chose to be freaks, who made themselves into a show because they wanted attention. One of them in particular called himself the Lizard Man. He was a short bald guy who'd had scales tattooed all over his body, even his damn eyelids. He had his teeth filed to points, by a professional of course, and had his tongue split to make it forked. He even had these ridiculous hoops he'd stretched his ears around, like a goddamn key chain. I couldn't believe it. Here was a guy who'd been born a regular kid and not only chose to but payed to be made into a freak like me. He didn't seem to like the idea of another reptile on the show floor stealing his lime light and he made it clear to me we wouldn't be friends. I guess I could see why he might resent me. He clearly spent a lot of time, money, and pain to be made into a sideshow, while I was lucky enough to be born with most of it and have the rest of it involuntarily given to me for the pathetically low price of absolutely goddamned nothing. Maybe now you can appreciate the kind of self-control it took to not chew this guy's ridiculous bifurcated tongue out of his screaming face. I only had to take him to task once though. After a night of heavy drinking, he'd decided to see just who the real Lizard Man was. I picked him up by his scrawny, tattooed neck and hung him by his asinine ear hoops on the coat rack by the door. I let him hang there and scream until I finished my drinks and he had just about passed out, tears soaking his tattooed cheeks and blood running down the sides of his neck. He looked up at me and as soon as his eyes showed the slightest hint of anger, I clamped my teeth shut about half an inch from his nose with a loud clack. The piss running down his leg was the deciding vote on the matter.

Looking back, I wish I could have stayed in the swamp and never come back to the world of men. Maybe its nostalgia, I don't know. I learned to drink and smoke, about money and the things it could get me. I learned about status and power, the empty power people can only use on each other. Doing shows also reminded me of why I ran into that swamp in the first place. People staring, laughing, talking about you like you weren't there. Of course there were bars between us now and I'd put myself out as a spectacle, but that didn't change the way it felt. All the old hate came back like a leak in a boat. The Doc wanted to call me the Alligator Man, but I thought it might be too close to what the people had been looking for back at the swamp, and besides I remembered the crocodile I'd killed and eaten in that dream and thought crocodile fit better. He added the Killer part of my name to give me a dangerous edge and to scare the kiddies. So that was when I became Killer Croc. After doing shows and feeling the old hate seep back, I started hunting again. After we'd rolled up for the night, I'd sneak out into the world of men and hunt. The homeless and street walkers were the easy targets. I knew not to grab anyone people might miss. Anyone too pretty or too well off was off limits. As Joker once told me, if you kill the people society expects to die, no one panics. Drunks, insomniacs, gangbangers, drug addicts. One time I bagged a gangbanger who was trying to rape some woman, like a goddamned hero saving the day. I ate them all. It was like an addiction. Something about it compelled me, satisfied the anger that had come back. I guess eating a person is the ultimate domination. It was something only real monsters did. It was what made them scary. Not the killing or stalking, but that they ate you. I guess it's the same fear people have of rape. It's not the pain or the attack, it's the domination, the fact that you're satisfying them, that they're feeding off you.

I should have been happy to stay with the freaks and travel, hunting on the side. But something about being in the world of men infected me with their ambition. I wanted more. My chance came when a few unsavory types came to see the freak show, looking for potential. They represented the African Disciples, a black street gang that claimed the town we'd stopped in as their own. They were looking for someone scary to serve as a deterrent and enforcer for their gang. They hit the jackpot with me. After the show they asked me to come back with them to meet their boss. Ol' Lizard man must have over heard and thought it was a rival freak show trying to buy me off. He insisted he go along to make sure Dr. Dimmirt was properly represented. They drove us downtown and took us up to a penthouse where armed men in suits stood at all the doors. The boss was a guy named Damien "Blood" Stone, a stocky black man in a tailored suit and gold rings. He looked at me appraisingly, said I was one scary looking mother fucker. I smiled, showing him my pointed teeth. Lizard man seemed nervous, realizing this wasn't a rival freak show I'd been called to. Boss Blood explained he wanted an enforcer to inspire fear in his enemies and loyalty from his troops. He wanted a monster to keep on a leash and that he would reward that monster handsomely for such a service. I agreed, looking at the lavish office the man enjoyed. This was how to live in the world of men.

They took us down to a lounge were members of the gang hung out and he introduced me, Lizard Man still waited close by, more nervous than ever. Some of the gang bangers looked at me with shock, others with contempt. I think being seen next to a self-made freak like Lizard Man made me look like I'd chosen to be this way because I wanted to be scary, or that it was some weird kink. I knew an easy way to correct that. When the boss said I'd have to prove myself in order to join up I nodded and asked Lizard Man to show them why they called him that. When he bared his neatly filed teeth and stuck out his split tongue, I grabbed it and ripped it out of his mouth, pulling veins and muscle strands behind it like ribbons. As he started to scream and vomit blood I took the tongue in my fist and jammed it into his throat. He scratched at his engorged neck, leaving deep gashes as he staggered, eyes bulging. After he fell to the floor there was a deep silence, even the boss couldn't believe it. Suddenly everyone jumped to their feet, hooting and shouting praise. Impressing criminals was easy. They only responded to two things. Ruthlessness and boldness. I had proven I had both in spades. When word got around, I had become exactly the kind of monster Boss Blood wanted on his payroll.

I went everywhere with the boss after that. He gave me a pager and all new clothes. I had all the money and drugs I could want. But as I followed the Boss to gang meetings and drug deals, I started getting bored. After my initiation, my reputation was unquestioned, so all I had to do was stand near the boss and look intimidating. I started to feel the leash he kept me on. When he'd eat at fancy restaurants, I'd have to wait outside. Unless he wanted everyone in the room scared out of their minds, he'd leave me outside. It was fine at first but the human ambition I'd been infected with made it more and more grating. That was when I found the underground fighting circles. I started going there once or twice a week under my freak show name, Killer Croc. It let me get my frustrations out and gave me a bit more money to spend as well. It also taught me how to fight. Even though I'd killed plenty of people, I only knew how to stalk and take em down. Being face to face and throwing punches is different. I learned by watching, by training, and by taking on anyone who stepped in the ring with me. That was enough for a while, but I found my thirst for power and killing had gotten a lot deeper. The African Disciples had only one rival gang in town, the Puerto Ricans who called themselves the 5th Street Lords. After another boring day on the boss' leash, I decided to go hunting again. This time I'd be hunting on behalf of the African Disciples.

I knew where they liked to hang out and where the leaders of the gang worked. It was an old housing project they'd turned into a fortress. I took a few pills to get amped up, chained the only exits shut, cut the power, and started the killing spree with just a knife and the old predatory rush I used to get back in the swamp. I made my way through the building floor by floor, catching some by surprise, others I had to chase down. A few got some good shots in but I couldn't feel it through the rancor. By the time I'd come bursting into the leader's room I was soaked with blood and wild-eyed with adrenalin. That rican took one look at me and jumped out of the window of his 14th story apartment. Still a bit dazed, I grabbed a duffel bag and started stuffing it with drugs and cash. In the end the body count had been 33 men, 4 women, and 1 minor. As I walked back through the halls, double-checking my work, my pager went off.

Back at Boss Blood's office, still dripping Puerto Rican blood, I gave him the spoils of my outing. No one said anything for a long time. He finally sent me out so he could think about what to do. I thought I would be praised as a hero, but I saw fear in the stocky man's eyes. I started to see weakness. When he called me back in, there were others with him, his lieutenants, and no one smiled. He started out by praising my success, accomplishing more than any single member had ever done before. Then he started in with the bullshit. He told me it was too savage, too visible. He'd be lucky if he could keep the cops from hauling in every member of the African Disciples over that blood bath I'd pulled. He said we were criminals but we weren't monsters. We kill when we have to make a point. He started going on about staying under the radar and picking your battles, that because I was his monster, my attack would make him look bad, trying to tell me he still held my leash and that I don't bite unless he gives the word. All that tread lightly bullshit should have been easy for me to grasp, since I'd found out the same when I was chased out of my swamp. But I was young and badly infected with the ways of men. All I heard was that he was scared by what I'd done and that he didn't have the balls to pull anything like that himself. Now his leash had become shackles and I did what any wild animal would do.

The next night I told him I wanted to speak with him and he let me into his office. I told him what I wanted, that I wanted the gang, I wanted the top position, and that I would eat his heart to prove I deserved it. Well he was quite upset by this news, as you might understand, and tried to call his guards. I let him. By the time they got there I had pried his ribs back and held his still twitching heart in my hand. They looked like kids playing a frozen statue game. I told them the good news as I casually ate the fresh heart like an apple. I was the boss now, they work for me, and things would be different. The reaction went one of three ways throughout the gang. They hated it, but were too terrified to challenge me. They loved it and saw it as an opportunity for more power. Or they got the hell out of town and never looked back.

From then on we did things my way. The number one rule was fear. Our brutality would be our power. Murder was encouraged, the bloodier and more personal the better. Disagreements within were handled with death-matches, which kept the troops in line. We quickly became the dominant gang in the city. Our tactics were far more brutal and terrifying than any gang that came before us. But I was young, as I said. I thought brutality could solve anything. Well it wasn't long before the police, who had once willingly aided the gang, now decided we had become a menace to society. I'd heard rumors that the other gangs helped to feed that choice for them and even helped them take us out. While I drank expensive champagne in hot tubs, our hang-outs were getting raided. My boys fought tooth and nail, I'll give em that, but they were out gunned. The noose was tightening and I didn't want to see it. The day they came for me, the few bangers who stayed looked like kids in a warzone. I think the only thing they were more scared of than the cops busting in our doors was what I'd do to them if they tried to run. The first wave broke through the penthouse doors and my boys put up a good fight. With the first wave dead and the remaining bangers dying I knew this would be it for me. I pried open the skull of one of the cops and picked through his brain, finding the tiny gland I'd remembered from the croc. As I chewed it I charged the next wave and became a blur of bullets, faces and blood. I don't remember any of it. The next thing I knew I was running through the streets, police sirens blaring somewhere. As I realized what had happened, I noticed an open sewer cap and hopped in. I followed those pipes and sluiceways until I came to the river just outside of town. I'd made it out. Now that the gland had worn off, I was stiff all over and the bullet wounds had started to hurt again. I just sat against that old pipe and went to sleep.

Well after that I wasn't sure what to do with myself. I hopped on a train like the old days and just rode the rails for a while. I felt ashamed of myself, not for losing the power I'd taken, but for wanting it in the first place. I felt like no matter where I went, I'd always end up running. Then I started hearing things about a place called Gotham. I was hearing that the local mafias and gangs were jumping ship because of someone who called himself the Batman. My interest was piqued. Here was a place to start fresh, to make my mark. And more importantly, here was someone worth hunting. A monster among monsters. The Batman was the top of the food chain in Gotham, and I thought I could change that. That brought me out of my depression and into Gotham City.


	3. Chapter 3: Firefly

2

The asylum was buzzing with the news of Trista's break through with Croc. No one had ever gotten him to open up that way before. As she walked into the main lobby people were smiling and waving at her, congratulating her and wanting to ask her questions about Croc. Even the bored man at the main desk greeted her with a smile as he buzzed her in. She accepted all of this gracefully and made her way to Dr. Adams' office. It was time she got the access she needed.

Dr. Adams sat at her desk working, ignoring Trista as best she could.

She'll be on the defensive this time. Trista thought with a small smile.

"Dr. Adams?" Trista prodded gently.

"Just a minute, Ms. Martin." Adams snapped back, immediately seizing control of the conversation. Trista waited patiently as Adams put her paperwork away.

"What can I do for you, Ms. Martin?"

"I came to give you the advanced copy of my article and schedule interviews with the other patients on my list." Trista said matter-of-factly. Dr. Adams looked at Trista with thinly veiled contempt. She was a woman who wasn't used to being proven wrong and she didn't seem to know how to handle it.

"Give me the article and I'll see about your interviews." Trista handed her the folder and Dr. Adams looked at it the way someone might look at a dead bug.

"Dr. Adams, I'd like to know who I'll be interviewing and in what order so I can prepare and research." Adams rolled her eyes and picked up the list Trista had sent.

"If I approve your article," She added with emphasis. "Garfield Lynns, tomorrow morning. The rest will be scheduled and arranged depending on the article and your success with Mr. Lynns. Good day, Ms. Martin."

Trista held her ground and asked, "And will the Joker be available for an interview?" She asked it innocently and Dr. Adams set her paper down to look at her sternly.

"Patient 5663 is currently a level 6 threat and will not be available at any time, Ms. Martin." Adams stared her down and Trista held her gaze as she said, "When will his threat level be evaluated next?"

Dr. Adams folded her hands without breaking eye contact. "That is for the administration to decide and it is not something you should be concerned with. You have been granted access to several high profile patients of varying threat levels and, due to your moderate success with Mr. Jones, have been granted more access than any other member of the press has had so far. Ms. Martin, I highly recommend you don't press your luck."

Trista understood she wasn't going to get anywhere at this time so she held Adams' gaze a moment before standing to leave. "Thank you for your time, Dr. Adams." She said politely before shutting the office door.

It seemed Adams was trying to undercut her methods by cutting her preparation time. This alpha dog bravado was getting old. It didn't matter; Firefly isn't going to be a complicated case. Arsonists rarely were. As she was leaving she noticed Dr. Hilleman watching her from afar and as soon as he noticed her noticing he turned back toward his office. Trista smiled to herself and followed after him. At his office he turned around and smiled with feigned surprise mixed with genuine surprise.

"Ms. Martin. This is a surprise. I was hoping to speak with you."

"Is that so?" Trista watched his awkward body language with the jaded eye of a woman used to inspiring this kind of behavior in men. My God. Was she really doing this? Did she forget the road this lead down last time?

"The whole place is buzzing about your success with Jones. I was one of the few to actually see you in action and I must say I was impressed." He smiled at her and his eyes lit up with genuine admiration. Trista hid her smile behind her hand humbly and turned away as though embarrassed.

"I'm sure it was nothing you haven't seen before, but thank you."

Hilleman seemed to hesitate for a moment as though deciding something important. "Would you like to meet somewhere later? As a colleague." He added this last part hastily as though covering his tracks.

"I just want to discuss ideas with you. You know, to pick your brain, as they say." He smiled self-consciously and Trista returned his smile.

"A meeting of the minds? Sounds great. Do you have a place in mind?"

Hilleman brightened and seemed to have forgotten how to form words. Eventually he managed to stammer out the name of a café near the asylum and she agreed to meet him there that evening. Before that she had stop by the GCPD to talk with their Arson Unit.

Gordon introduced her to the head of the arson unit, Bob Peterson; a balding middle aged black man with tired eyes and a slumped posture. Sitting in his office smoking a cigarette, he pulled the files he had on Mr. Lynns and threw her a sidelong glance.

"Been with the arson unit 15 years and never had a case like this one. Most of what we deal with are folks burning their own stuff down for the insurance or stupid kids lighting dumpster fires. Maybe once in a while we'll get a jealous lover or a political wacko sparking flames but this Firefly character, he's in a league of his own." He finished his first cigarette and started to light another when he offered one to Trista, which she took and let him light.

"These firebug types, they get some kind of thrill out of it. Most times we can find semen at the scene where they're involved, but not with this guy. I honestly don't know why he does it. Guys like that you don't bother trying to understand. All I know is he's dangerous." He'd finished another cigarette before Trista had even smoked hers down half-way and put another in his mouth without lighting it.

"Arsonists aren't too bright. It's an impulsive crime for most, but not for Lynns. He was patient, took his time and made sure his fires did the maximum damage. The things he'd come up with were devastating. All homemade, simple house hold items or even items and chemicals he'd find in the building he was targeting. We had more new combinations and mixtures coming in every week he was active. I just don't understand how someone can put so much time and effort into destroying people's lives." Peterson shook his head and looked at the files.

"As if that weren't enough, he also enjoyed publishing his ideas and strategies for other flamers to use. Had several websites set up for those he called the 'Keepers of the Flame'." Peterson shook his head and tapped his ashes into an overflowing tray.

"We got them taken down as quickly as we could find them but the internet's a big place and sites like that are like roaches. I don't like to think about how many people he may have helped kill with this little arsonist's cookbook of his."

Trista flipped through the files casually and asked, "How did you catch him?" She finished off the cigarette he'd given her and refused a second when he offered. She didn't smoke all that often, really only socially, and didn't feel like tempting the habit.

"The Batman, of course." Peterson said, settling back in his chair.

"We realized we weren't dealing with a typical arsonist so we called him in. He was the one who figured out the contractor connection. Turned out Lynns had been working as a freelance contractor in Gotham for years so he could set places up to burn. Sabotaging fire exits, disabling alarms, creating paths for the fire to follow; all while getting payed to fix the very building he was setting up. Do you live in Gotham, miss?"

Trista shook her head and said, "Jersey, actually. I'm here for the article."

Peterson nodded as he leaned back in his chair like an old man at the end of a long day. "Maybe you saw the news then, the great fire of Gotham? Destroyed nearly 300 homes and businesses, killed at least 28 people, injured even more. That was Lynns' magnum opus, or least it was supposed to be. The largest fire in the city's history, though I'm sure it wasn't large enough for him. He wanted to see the whole city burn to the ground. If it weren't for the Batman, he might have. The wind was just right and it had been dry all summer. Batman saved our asses that day and he tracked Lynns down. I thank God for every day Lynns stays locked up." Trista stood and thanked him for his time, taking the files before she went.

Hilleman sat across from Trista at the Old Gotham Café, a steaming cup sitting before him and a small espresso glass in front of Trista. The café itself wasn't too crowded and the sound of espresso machines and idle chatter colored the atmosphere pleasantly.

"Have you ever been to Gotham before?" Hilleman asked with a nod to the outside.

"No. This is my first time in the city. I must say it's not as dark and scary as its reputation would have me think."

"You sound almost disappointed." Louis said with a wink and took a sip of his coffee. Trista just smiled bashfully.

"I'm sure you've guessed I have a fascination with the dangerous side of the human mind. Is that what drew you to Arkham, doctor?"

"Please call me Lou, we're just two people in a café talking over coffee." Trista nodded in assent and Louis continued. "I suppose there is a mystique to the criminal element in Arkham, especially the more theatrical elements that have been surfacing lately. I came to Arkham because it is one of the oldest mental hospitals in the country, and because they accepted my application."

Trista took a sip of her espresso and folder her napkin neatly. "Have you treated any of the so-called super criminals, Lou?"

Louis seemed a bit embarrassed but grinned down into the black circle of coffee before him. "I have had sessions with a few. I can't discuss those sessions, of course-"

"Of course."

"But yes, I have met with some of them."

Trista smiled innocently. "Have you noticed a difference in their personalities compared with a more conventional criminal mind?"

Louis considered this as he looked out at the Gotham skyline. "I suppose I did notice something. They seem, more sure of themselves, I suppose. Most disturbed criminals have more jumbled characters, simple yet unpredictable in a childish way, but these subjects do not. They are disturbed, yet they accept their madness as a reality. They are more comfortable with being what they are."

Trista's eyes seemed to light up at this and she took another sip.

"How about you? Do you have a family?" She asked innocently.

"I have a son, he's 8. My wife disappeared in the night with our savings and my prescription pads to parts unknown. Jack was 6 at the time. It's just been he and I ever since." Louis finished his cup and watched the traffic for a moment.

"Are you married, Ms. Martin?"

Trista shook her head. "Divorced. Married too young and had to choose between my husband and my career. No kids. That was about 10 years ago."

They both watched the traffic for one silent moment.

"I read your articles on the serial murderers you interviewed. What is it that attracts you to these types of subjects?"

Trista grinned. "I took a class on criminal psychology and found it fascinating. I even considered changing my major. My mother wouldn't hear of it though, She wants me to start a small practice, preferably in our home town, and just help normal people with normal problems. That was one of the reasons I never finished my doctorate. I got the job at Cognition and got to study what interested me. My mom probably has a miniature heart attack every time she sees who I interview next. I guess that's why I prefer to stay away from home. Who needs that hassle?"

Hilleman nodded. "There must be dozens of killers you haven't talked with yet. Why come to Arkham? Why super criminals?"

Trista sighed and finished her drink. "Because I found if you've met one psychopathic killer, you've met them all. The super criminal phenomenon just seemed more interesting."

"And is it more interesting?"

Trista smiled contentedly and looked back at the Gotham skyline.

That night she sat lighting wood matches one after the other in her new outfit, a yellow blouse with a burnt orange skirt, as she read the case files and news reports. It took some time but she found one of his websites. It had incendiary recipes, fire bomb schematics, everything a young arsonist on a budget could want. The great fire of Gotham lasted 37 hours and consumed at least 238 buildings and homes. Apart from the great fire in Chicago, it was the most destructive fire in American history and the single worst fire ever attributed to arson. Peterson had been right, it was a fire starter's magnum opus. When she ran out of matches she started burning scraps of paper in the ashtray as she did a search on the Joker. Various news stories came up as well as pictures of the Clown Prince of Crime himself, grinning darkly with stained teeth, smudged grease paint collected in the lines of his face, his mouth a blood red smear of lip stick that went across the scarred mass of his cheeks almost to his ears; creating a freakishly large smile that was both cartoonish and blackly terrifying. Trista had been aware of the Joker's exploits but she'd never delved into them until now. Looking at his Cheshire grin and piercing eyes, she knew he would be the crown jewel of her writing career if only she could get close to him. Trista spent the rest of the night reading as much as she could find on the Joker, forgetting her upcoming interview until almost 3 am when she had pulled herself away from her research long enough to check the time. She slept dreamlessly that night.

Trista sat in the interview room, her clothes and hair smelling of sulfur and ashes. A small space heater hummed pleasantly in the corner, bringing the room to a sweltering 94˚, while a dehumidifier kept the air desert dry. They brought him in about 10 minutes later. Garfield Lynns was not restrained to the degree Croc had been but the orderlies bringing him were large and rough looking. One of them had what looked like an old burn scar across the side of his face and hands and he looked down at Lynns with utter contempt. Lynns was a thin man with a gaunt face, his hair was, like his goatee, short but wild and red, sticking out in odd places.

He smiled with thin white lips at the guard with the scars and said, "You've got a little something…" He motioned to the side of his face where the orderly had the scars. The man seemed to bite down on his lower lip in an effort to keep control and shoved Lynns toward his chair.

"Another time, Sparky." The orderly threatened as he led the others out of the room. Lynns shifted in his chair, raising his eye brows at Trista as if saying 'Well I never…' before leaning back comfortably, crossing his hands over his stomach.

"What is that enchanting aroma? Matches and notebook paper? That takes me back. I don't believe we've met, Ms….?" He said pleasantly.

Trista smiled and said, "Trista Martin. Nice to meet you, Mr. Lynns."

Lynns put his hands up in a warding off gesture. "Please, Mr. Lynns is my father. Just call me Firefly." Trista nodded and took out her recorder.

"I'm here to talk about your….how would you put it? Crimes? Offenses?"

"My work." Lynns said simply, a smirk never leaving his face.

"Very well, your work. You have quite a bit of history here in Gotham. Before we get into that, would you mind telling me how that orderly you spoke to got those scars?"

Lynns chuckled and looked down as though reminiscing. "Saw those did you? Did you know they turn red when he's upset? They decided to start searching my room randomly and old butterfingers there came across a project I'd been working on. I'd been smuggling bits and pieces when I could, a jar here, a bit of tinfoil there, some wire and sandpaper. It was coming along nicely. I'd been collecting methane gas from my own bowel movements in the jar for weeks before rigging it up. All I needed was a trigger when they came across it. Scarface there took a whiff of it and dropped it in disgust, which provided an excellent trigger, if a bit unexpected. He's lucky it went off on the floor and not in his hands or he might have looked more like Harvey Dent. They slapped me in isolation for 6 weeks after that and made sure to conduct thorough searches of my room every day since." Lynns rocked back and forth on the hind legs of his chair as he talked.

Trista marveled at his ingenuity and asked him to tell her about his methods and where he first developed them. Lynns was more than happy to share his knowledge and began his story.


	4. Chapter 4: Fire Breeder

Fire Breeder

You'd be surprised how many people don't know how to make a fire. It used to be what separated us from the animals, now most people would be screwed if they ever had to live in caves again. In fact, most people couldn't tell you what fire really is, other than the hot bright stuff that lights the end of their cigarette. Even those pud-pulling fucks who fancy themselves pyro-maniacs couldn't tell you the first thing about what makes a fire burn, what it eats, how it breathes. They might tell you they see visions in the flames or the face of god, but not one of them knows that fire is a living, breathing, thing. That's why people call those fuck heads fire-bugs, because that's what they are. Goddamn pests. That's why I don't consider myself a Firestarter. Because I don't start fires, I breed them.

Any good dictionary will tell you that fire is defined as a chemical reaction which creates heat and light. An exothermic combination of some kind of combustible with oxygen. Fire is born from heat, oxygen and fuel. Other than the need for water, that's pretty much how all living things manage to live. The chemical reaction of fire is basically oxidization, energy being released or absorbed by oxygen combining with carbon to make water and carbon dioxide. This is the same chemical reaction that makes metal rust and corrode. If you think about it, rust is just fire in slow motion. How many pyros could tell you that? This is the same process that makes explosions too, only the heat is created faster than it's released thus creating the aggressive expansion. Fire eats fuel, breathes oxygen, and gives off heat. Once you know that, you can burn just about anything. Once you make it, you feed it, but you can't just shove a log down its throat, you have to give it small things to eat; tinder is what they call it. Then when it's big enough you give it kindling. Then you give it the big stuff. If you want to really burn stuff, you've got to raise your fire right.

Did you know I'm a registered fire marshal? When your life is bringing fires into the world, you have to know how to protect them from those who want to take them out. I've been through all kinds of training from fire safety to fire fighting. I know how to collect evidence after a fire to determine what started it. This is how you can know the best way to grow your fire and how to keep it alive. If you can, get a good look at the place you want to start. Inspect the area. Look for places fires can catch naturally and which can be accommodated easily. Think about the most logical path your fire will take and how you can lead it to more food or oxygen. Look for sprinkler systems and smoke detectors. If you can, shut the water off or damage the pipes close to the ground to kill the pressure. Smoke detectors can either be smashed or if you want to be discreet, just pull the batteries and put them back. If it's a commercial building, find the supply room and see what kinds to chemicals they keep. This will help you with leading the fire. The most common flammables are Acetone or polish remover, Ethyl Alcohol which is similar to rubbing alcohol, fuel Oil No. 1 which is basically kerosene and can be found in insecticides, lighter fluid, and portable heaters. Most commercial places have a heating system and you can find diesel fuel in some of them. If the place is being worked on look for buckets of lacquer and lacquer thinner. It's like my daddy used to tell me before he went to prison for supposedly burning his office down, "Work smart, not hard. Possibilities are everywhere you look."

The modern world is full of combustibles if you keep that in mind. Most people are so goddamned obvious. They think gas or lighter fluid when there are endless combinations and options available to the knowledgeable fire breeder. For instance, most think gasoline when it comes to fire, but gas evaporates pretty damn quickly, as do most flammable liquids. But if you mix it with something that thickens it without dampening it, you've got a much more manageable fuel. Mix some Styrofoam with your gas to thicken it into napalm. Vaseline mixes well with a lot of fuels and is pretty common. Just a cotton ball thick with Vaseline will burn for hours. If you can get paraffin wax, mix it with sawdust or dryer lint. One of my favorite tricks I call the birthday cake. I came up with it in high school right around the time the gym burned down mysteriously. You get a nice big wad of paraffin and sawdust and stick a bunch of those "trick" candles that don't blow out in small divots you make with your finger and fill them in with the fuel of your choice. For the final touch, bury an aerosol can of cooking oil inside the cake to give it a nice bang. This stuff is simple if you take the time to think about it.

If you're the burn and run type who doesn't have the patience to plan the fire, there are simple fire bombs you can make from house hold items. A tennis ball filled with strike-anywhere match heads is easy enough, you can even make a pull trigger for it by using the strike pad from the matchbox and a key ring. Use matches wrapped in cotton soaked in lighter fluid or even olive oil, and then plastic wrap the whole thing together. Or you can scrape the heads of the matches and fill plastic straws with the powder, capping them each off with a match and wrapping them with the soaked cotton and plastic. A friend of mine used to leave a lit cigarette on a book of matches near flammables, until he got caught for leaving his DNA on the butt of the cigarette. Another guy I knew used to fill milk jugs with gas and plug the mouth with clothes to make a nice Molotov. Unfortunately he used his own clothes and they got hair fibers from them which got him locked up. You'd be surprised how easy it is to slip up on those kinds of things. You think fire destroys evidence, but they can lift prints and pull DNA off of burned places just as easy as anywhere else. Patience and care are the keys to success in any profession. That's what kept me out of jail and allowed me to continue my work for so long.

What about casualties you might ask? People make a great fuel to be honest. Most people are walking fire bombs. The clothes they wear and all the chemical products they cover themselves with makes them no different than the match bombs I told you about earlier. Better, even, because they will panic and run around, spreading the fire better than I ever could. For example, when I was a kid, there was this coach who liked to get touchy with the kids in the locker room. Well, I found out where he lived. He had this big ugly cat with long fur and I let it out and brought it home with me. I sprayed my mom's hair spray into its fur for hours, combing it through gently. Once that cat was so full of chemicals it made your eyes water just holding it, I took it back that night, lit the tail with my Bic, and hurled it through an open window. That cat was a flaming comet before it even disappeared through that window and it started screaming like a lady getting knifed. It ran through that house like a bat out of hell and spread the fire so fast, that coach had no choice but to jump out of his bedroom window on the second floor, breaking his back and paralyzing him for life. Couldn't have happened to a nicer guy if you ask me. People like to ask me how many I've killed in my fires, and I always say the same thing. Who cares? People are great as potential fuel, they can be helpful to your fire but they could also turn into heroes and cut it short with an extinguisher or water hose. That's why I always sabotage the extinguishers and hoses beforehand to remedy this. That goes double for the hydrants on the street.

Fire fighters always pose a threat, but there are ways to protect your fires from these interlopers. Breaking or sealing hydrants with blowtorches or hammers is one way. You can set up booby traps, such as bullets and shotgun shells placed in strategic areas. Most fires aren't hot enough to set them off so make sure you spike them with phosphorus from fireworks or road flares. Blocking and sealing doors to keep them out is another easy defense. Setting up makeshift road spikes on the streets with boards and nails. I once went into a fire station in my old home town and replaced all the water in their reserve water tank with gasoline. When those idiots pulled up to a fire at my teacher's house and whipped out their hose, they just about had a heart attack when their fire hose turned into the world's biggest flamethrower. Get to know your local fire department, both where it is and where they take calls from. Get a good idea of the routes they take and how long it takes them to get to a certain point. This will make it easier to outsmart them and keep them guessing.

I thought fire fighters would be the only thing to worry about other than changes in wind direction or a sudden rain, until Batman that is. I had this huge plan laid out. I worked for months as a contractor in Gotham, sabotaging fire prevention methods, leaving combustibles inside walls, blocking fire exits by turning the doors around so they open inward. I worked for most of a year getting this place ready. It was going to be my masterpiece. As soon as the wind was high enough and blowing the right way, I started it off, taking out fire hydrants along the way. This city would have burned flat too, the weather was perfect and the fire was growing faster than I could have hoped for. But the Batman, he figured it out somehow. Figured out I'd been setting this town up through my contracting work. He managed to undo a lot of the work I'd done, enough to stop the spread anyway, and he even used some crazy gadgets to help put the fires out. Where does he get that crap? It's not as though it's on the market! It was still the biggest fire in Gotham's history and over 200 buildings were damaged or destroyed and I don't remember how many died. Maybe for some people that would be enough, but I find myself thinking about the fire it could have been in a perfect world. Confidentially, there are still quite a few fire-ready buildings in Gotham they never found, just waiting for a spark or an accident to set them off. I can't tell you how happy it makes me to know my work is still out there waiting to bring life to new fires. Keeps me warm at night.

You're probably wondering why I do it. Why do I breed fires and destroy people's lives? Well if you have to ask, you've probably never burned anything bigger than a match. Fire was a gift from the gods, mankind's birthright. Fire has always been power. Those who control it can shape the world. I don't do it for money or insurance fraud like some of these assholes. I don't get off on it either. The power I get from it goes way deeper than that. The keeper of the flame has always been a sacred duty. Fire is pure. It doesn't hate, it doesn't play favorites. Fire is as blind as justice itself. I've gotten bitten more than a few times myself, mostly when I was younger and still learning the ropes. Fire is the great equalizer. Fire brings everything back to zero. Fire can kill you or it can save your life. Its ruins things but it also purifies them. I'm a fire breeder because I love fire. It's my passion. My art. My compulsion. And if you think me being locked up means my work is over, just remember; everything burns.


	5. Chapter 5: Riddler

3

As she expected, the pyro was no challenge. Get guys like that talking and you can't stop them from giving themselves away. Her next interview, however, was going to be more interesting. Edward Nigma, or Eddie Nashton as he was born or the Riddler as he is known now, was a classic case of narcissistic personality disorder with a very high IQ and a penchant for outsmarting people. He wasn't going to give her anything easily, not if he was aware of it anyway. Dr. Adams had become distant with Trista, refusing to meet her and instead opting to send her dates and times for her interviews in the form of memos given to her by proxies. That was fine by her. She didn't need to deal with Dr. Alpha-Bitch just yet. She was given a few more days to prepare this time, although when dealing with a know-it-all like Nigma she would need all the time she could get to gather facts and data just to keep up with him. The trick with narcissists was to keep pace with them without overtaking them. If you couldn't keep up, they'd get bored with you and shut down. If they couldn't keep up with you, they'd become enraged and antagonistic. Getting Nigma to give her something genuine will require precise applications of both. Sidestepping an ego as massive as his will be difficult but egos are simple creatures with simple needs. I'll just need to get my mental database stocked up first. Trista thought as she entered the ancient stone building currently housing the Gotham Library. It was a building even older than the Arkham house and contained the single greatest collection of rare books on the east coast. Trista found herself a good corner to work in and started digging.

The next morning, Trista was sitting in the office of Marshal Laurence, head of the GCPD's cybercrimes unit. He was a stocky man with a push broom moustache and coke bottle glasses. Trista half expected to see a pocket protector sticking out of his breast pocket.

"Nigma was a brilliant man. He used to head this very unit, in fact he was the one who trained me." Laurence typed at his keyboard as he talked, glancing from the screen to Trista, or more specifically to Trista's chest.

"He was a hard man to work for. A real hard ass that never had anything but criticism for anyone, especially if they were doing well. When they finally figured out he had been the infamous Riddler we'd been tracking, no one here was surprised. I only wish we'd realized it sooner." Laurence adjusted the glasses on his nose and looked back at his screen when he noticed Trista had seen him staring.

"The way I heard it, Nigma got the job here by hacking the GCPD data base. He left a calling card asking for the job and Commissioner Loeb liked his initiative and approved it. Soon he was tracking down hackers and identity thieves faster than we could process them. Of course later we found out he was really eliminating the competition for himself. He created the notorious "?est E0n" virus, a software corrupting, data mining, super bug, which still plagues emails and websites to this day. Its funny, he made such a big deal out of catching the Riddler hacker, had a huge wall of suspects and offered us promotions if any of us could find him. You'd think he'd keep us off the case but it was like he was daring us to catch him. I guess that's one of the reasons we didn't suspect him."

Laurence took a swig of coffee and typed something in. "The only thing he cared about more than the Riddler case was the Batman. Most of us were more than happy to leave that case unsolved, but not Nigma. He was obsessed with figuring out who he was. In the end it was the Batman who exposed Nigma as the Riddler so I guess he had good reason to want him gone."

Trista nodded and clicked off her recorder. "Can you send me those files?"

Laurence smiled politely and said, "Sure thing. You think you can send me a copy of your article when its done? I'd love to read it."

Trista agreed and thanked him again before heading back to her hotel.

Trista pulled the files on Nigma from her email and started creating a profile of him in her mind. After being exposed as the Riddler hacker, Nigma left the department and disappeared into the Gotham underground. It was at this time his Riddler persona escalated. Riddler's crimes had been heavily covered in the media, despite the department's attempts to keep it quiet. This was most likely Nigma's own doing. He needs to be in the spotlight, he wants to be seen. He had been one of the first to be dubbed a "super criminal" by the media for his larger-than-life persona and theatrical crimes, perhaps he even created the title himself. His crimes targeted the Gotham elite, the university professors and politicians. Anyone Nigma felt needed to be brought down a peg. He would hack their computers, disrupt their lives, give their information away to scam artists and crooks. All the while he would send them cryptic messages and riddles to answer, and with each incorrect reply, a new misery would be visited upon them. Many of his victims suffered ruined careers, mental breakdowns, and even suicide attempts. The keys to his crimes and future victims were always delivered to the authorities in riddle form, much to their chagrin. In addition to engineering skills, Nigma also utilized the computer hacking and identity theft skills he'd displayed while on the force both to fund his crimes and hide his identity. Nigma believes he is the smartest man in the world and anyone who dared to claim otherwise would be put through his crucible. It was this narcissism which led to his capture by the Batman. Soon after Riddler's crimes began appearing in the media, the media began referring to Batman as "the world's greatest detective" in an obvious attempt to goad Nigma's narcissism. Upon hearing this, Nigma seemed to become once again obsessed with the Batman, leaving clues and riddles solely for him to solve. Nigma was arrested soon after and his final victim rescued.

Trista sat back in her chair, looking out at the night sky, looking for a spotlight to appear on the clouds. These men, most if not all were eventually brought down by one man. The Batman. No one knows who he is or where he came from. Something about him seems to inspire criminals like Nigma to be something more than typical criminals. The way he intimidates the criminal world with his shadowy persona and psychological tactics. It seems to have had a polarizing effect on the criminals of Gotham. Some were chased off by it but others were inspired to new heights. Whether the Batman has had a positive effect on crime in Gotham is still heavily debated. In any case he seems to represent a new era of crime and punishment. For better or worse.

They brought Edward Nigma into the interview room at 12:34 as per Trista's request. The table had been arranged so that Nigma sat at the head while Trista sat to his right, giving him the position of power facing the exit. She had found a chair which sat higher than her own to place him above her physically and had a large stack of files before her on the table. She had arranged for a man in a nondescript black suit to arrive with even more files some time during the interview, claiming they were from the FBI. This would not only show him Trista's interest in him but also the interest of the highest levels of law enforcement. The more important they made him feel, the more likely he was to open up. Nigma himself stood only an inch shorter than Trista herself and had jaw length auburn hair tied back behind his head. He was wiry, clean shaven, and carried himself like a man being escorted by a personal guard rather than a prisoner being brought against his will. Trista made sure to stand when he entered and to give him the look of wonder he expects from the people he meets.

"Trista Martin, I presume."

Trista felt a twinge of genuine surprise. "You know my name?"

Nigma smirked confidently and sat at the head of the table.

"The asylum is practically buzzing with animated rumors about you and your recent feats. I suppose anyone would be awe-struck by someone who can talk to animals."

"We're all animals in one sense or another."

"Does that make Arkham an animal shelter or a zoo?"

Trista smiled subtly and folded her hands before her. "Does that make you a visitor or an exhibit?"

Nigma rolled his eyes and looked down at her. "That makes me a man locked in the monkey cage. How about you? Are you here to gawk and take vacation slides or are you just another monkey come to poke and prod the peculiar hairless ape behind the bars?"

"I am here to ask a few questions."

"Ah, but those who question have little faith."

"And those who do not question have little wisdom." Trista replied.

Nigma smirked like a teacher being given a correct answer. "Indeed, Ms. Martin. You want to ask questions, well I enjoy questions myself, so let's make a game of it. I'll ask you a question and if you answer acceptably I'll answer a question of yours scrupulously, but if you get it wrong I'll answer your question fraudulently. To make it interesting, I won't tell you if you answered my questions properly or not so if you're unconvinced of your answers you may as well resign and go home. Got it?"

"Very well." Trista gave him an accommodating smile and waited for his question. Nigma seemed to study her a moment and he looked at the two-way mirror at her as he spoke.

"You believe you can decipher me like a puzzle, the same way you unraveled Croc and the fire starter. So tell me. What would an English lexicographer have to say about your achievements?"

Trista considered the question. He wanted her to identify the lexicographer in question and tell him what he'd said in regards to something. Psychology? Manipulation? The only lexicographer that came to her mind was Samuel Johnson the famous 17th century lexicographer. There were countless quotes by him but which was he after? He must be referring to what she'd done, most likely as a way of mocking her. What would Samuel Johnson think of her achievements?

"She has, indeed, done it very well; but it is a foolish thing done well."

Nigma smiled with a sideways look and Trista couldn't tell if it was because she was wrong or right. He clapped his hands and looked at her approvingly.

"Since it's your first time I'll bend the rules a bit and tell you that you are correct in quoting Samuel Johnson. Bravo. Now you may query your inquiry."

Trista smiled with a bit of relief and said, "When did you turn to crime?"

Nigma grinned and scratched his chin contemplatively. "I was a child. I began breaking the rules when I recognized they only applied to the naive. Which leads me to my question. Imagine you're trapped in an asylum and the rules say you can't leave. How do you get out?"

Trista considered the question. Is he asking me how to escape? How to get around the rules? Does he want me to admit there is no escape without breaking the rules or that there is a way out without breaking the rules? The key to solving riddles is to consider the simplest solution. He asked me to imagine I was trapped.

"I stop imagining that I'm trapped." Nigma made no indication she was right but only continued to watch her like a particularly interesting bug.

"What is your real name?"

Nigma looked up at the fluorescents in the ceiling as he shook his head.

"I could ask you the same question, Ms. Martin. Why ask a question if you know the answer? Because you want someone to know you know the answer. The name I give to others is Edward Nigma. The name others gave to me is the Riddler. The name I was born with is irrelevant, unlike yours. I know why you changed your name, if you want to know then answer me this. My first is often at the front door. My second is found in the cereal family. My third is what most people want. My whole is one of the united states."

Trista felt a sense of violation. Nigma knew her real name? That would mean he had access to her information somehow, even while locked up. She felt hesitant to push him further, unsure what he might capable of. Then again he may be bluffing to throw me off. Never mind. At the front door? A guest, a mat, a bell, a knob. Cereal family? Wheat, barley, rye, oat. What most people want? Love, money, sex, power. Bell-oat-sex. Knob-rye-money. Mat-rye-money. Matrimony. A united state. Jesus, he does know.

"Matrimony. How did you find that out?"

Nigma smiled devilishly and shrugged. "Come now, Ms. Martin. Names are low hanging fruit on the information tree. Money and time can get you a lot of things. There was a man who was born before his father, killed his mother, and married his sister. Yet there was nothing wrong with what he did. Why is this so?"

Trista smirked. She'd heard this one before. "His father was there at his birth, his mother died in child birth, and he later became a priest and married his sister at her wedding. Do you leave solutions to your crimes in riddle form because you want to be caught?"

Nigma's smile faded just enough for Trista to notice. "I do it in the interest of fairness. After all, the game is no fun if you have an unfair advantage. What would a sewing crates salesman say about it?"

Trista was lost on this one. Sewing crates? Something about fairness, or games and fun. He wants me to quote someone. A famous salesman? What is a sewing crate? Sewing-crate. Sew-crate. So-crate. Socrates. A Socrates salesman, which means Plato. What did Plato have to say about fairness?

"A guest will judge better of a feast than a cook." She was beginning to see frustration in Nigma's eyes. He wasn't expecting her to do so well.

"So far the only one to solve your riddles in time to stop you has been the Batman. Do you believe he is your intellectual equal or superior?"

Nigma seemed to wince at that and his smile faded completely.

"Batman is no smarter than the rest of you ill-bred simpletons, he just cheats better than anyone else. But if you think the 'world's greatest detective' is smarter than me, tell me this; When I'm used, I'm useless, once offered, soon rejected. In desperation oft expressed, the intended not protected."

"I'd say that's a poor excuse for a riddle." Trista said with a clever grin which seemed to set Nigma's teeth on edge. She was reeling him in now.

"No more games, Edward. I came here to interview the most brilliant criminal in history so I suggest you stop holding back." Nigma's smile returned.

"Well met, Ms. Martin. I can see you did your homework. I did mine as well. You want to dissect me as a typical case of narcissistic personality disorder coupled with delusions of grandeur so all of those simpletons who subscribe to your pathetic attempt at as psychological journal can feel superior. You think you can understand me and break me down into simple terms and conditions like a meal cut and ground to be consumed by the physically enfeebled. Let me assure you Ms. Martin, if you really understood me your dear readers would find me quite unpalatable."

Trista stood up at this and gathered her files. Nigma watched with a superior smirk as she put them all away and started for the door. Trista stopped before opening the door and turned back to Nigma.

"If you think I can't comprehend you psychologically, I'd be better off having you write the article. Unfortunately the security measures you are under prohibit that. It's a shame. You were going to be the center piece of my series on super criminals. I guess I'll have to make due with what I have. Thank you for your time, Mr. Nigma."

He looked at her with a suspicious sidelong glare though his smirk remained unmoved as she left him to be returned to his cell.

That night Trista stayed up into the early hours of the morning writing the article with what information she had. She kept a close eye on her email in case what she'd hoped would happen happened. An egomaniac like Nigma wouldn't be able to resist the invitation she'd given him. She would either receive an anonymous email or a summons for another interview. Of course if he didn't, she had more than enough to construct a decent article without him. All she had to do was wait and see.


	6. Chapter 6: E Nigma

?

What lies at the beginning of eternity, the end of time and space, the beginning of the end, and the end of everyplace? Most of you would assume the answer is God, but I can assure you I am no God. The idea that there could be a God responsible for this putrefying ball of excrement we call a planet is laughable, to say the least. So why pose such a confounding conundrum? To explain, this so-called "doctor of psychology" calling herself Trista Martin believes she is writing an article about me to try and explicate my accomplishments and persuade you they are those of an antisocial, unhinged, narcissist. Instead of imperiling you fine readers to such second-rate offal, I have taken the liberty of obliterating her previously written article from her home computer and distributing my own in its place, unbeknownst to her. For whom better to elucidate the riddle that is the Riddler than the Prince of Puzzles, the King of Conundrums, the Earl of Enigmas himself? How have I done this you may ask? I could explain it, but it would take far too long and I don't want to confuse you placid readers with the particulars of my remarkable feats, so I'll leave it a mystery for now.

Those of you reading no doubt trust my "criminal behaviors" and "anti-social conducts" stem from an abusive childhood. That would be an amusingly simple-minded assumption. If anything, my childhood is responsible for my great intelligence and keen sense of social manners. My father, while stringent, was not the drunken, abusive, ne'er-do-well living in a recliner surrounded by beer cans, as you people love to assume. He was a lawyer and would sooner cut his own fingers off than leave refuse out on the floor. However, if you seek an example of narcissistic behavior disorder, well he was a textbook case, believe me. He was one of those self-declared geniuses that always supposed he was the cleverest one in the room. Even my own mother divorced him within a year, after she'd had me of course, because he was so unendurable. She didn't even try to get partial custody of me because she knew she wouldn't stand a chance in court with him. So my father took it upon himself to elevate me and form me in his own faultless image. By the time I was out of diapers, when most kids were still besieged with understanding basic language, I had every president memorized by number, all the states and capitals, and most of the periodic table. My father would spend hours drilling me on everything, and I had to learn it, or I'd be castigated. If I got anything wrong, he would make me write for hours, copying law books and dictionaries, sometimes in languages I didn't understand. Anything not meeting his standards, which were of course phenomenally great, would result in another all-night session of writing Pi out to the 100,000th place or creating anagrams of historical figures names which reflect their character. He never hit me of course; he'd be terrified of hairline fractures or infections on his perfect hands. He'd do things like, take away my bed so I'd have to sleep on the floor of my room or just make me sleep in the bathroom so I couldn't read or have access to my computer all night. After one particularly bad week of quizzing, he turned my room into an extra office for himself, forcing me to sleep in the dining room for most of a semester. Sometimes he would wipe my hard drives clean, deleting weeks of work and countless hours of calculations and data. After he enacted that particular penance I started keeping a clandestine hard drive in the attic. He always knew how to get to you, always in fresh and imaginative ways. I think he really had a talent for it. He was obsessed, I think. He was trying to make me smarter than any other child, not for my own benefit, of course. He did it so he could boast to his lawyer friends and to the teachers. To show them how his "son" project was coming along.

You'd think someone who knew the multiplication tables at age 5 would be expected to skip a grade or two, but you'd be wrong. Father wanted me in the company of inferior minds so he could make sure everyone, both the children and the parents, would know how beneath me they were, how beneath him they were. Clearly this exacerbated my already deficient social eminences. Can you envision it? A powerful and original mind like mine entombed in the cattle yard of the education system? Required to answer obvious questions and listen to "superiors" explicate over and over what I already knew. My father forced me through all of it, never even considering I skip a grade or two even when the teachers implored him to let me. He specified it would test my focus and temper my aptitude for allocating with less significant minds. In addition he began enrolling me in intellectual extra-circulars. Spelling bees, chess tournaments, essay writing, science fairs, anything which offered status and tested me against other children my age. Meanwhile, my studies at home would go on, well beyond what they "taught" me in school, and my father, while not tiresome and monotonous like my "teachers" in school, was a much more unforgiving critic. In public I was a prodigy, but at home I was a simpleton. No matter how many perfect test scores and awards I'd receive; my father was convinced, based on my lackluster performance under his pitiless scrutiny, that I was only just toeing the line of mental normalcy. He would see my success is school and the outside world as evidence of the inexcusably low standards of excellence employed by our society.

It was around this time that I learned to cheat. Any test or contest, I had to perform to perfection or face reprimand. Even when I knew everything the test would ask me, I still went to great lengths to make sure I had a perfect score in the end. I could have passed those tests and "contests" with my eyes closed, but still, I had to be sure. And besides that, why waste my time demonstrating my acumen to these plebeians by retorting their obvious inquiries? It was more challenging and more gratifying to sidestep their pathetic procedures and principles to receive the required outcome my own way. The easy part was getting the answers. No one suspected the keenest adolescent in class of being a charlatan, so most of the time all I had to do was innocently request them. I'd tell the office attendant my teacher sent me to pick up the answer keys and she'd hand them right over. I'd tell the custodian I'd forgotten something in class and he'd unlock the doors for me and leave me to search the teacher's desk at my leisure. You'd be amazed how little people actually think about what is being asked of them. I've convinced restaurant owners to throw chairs through the windows of their own businesses by simply telling them over the phone that I worked for the fire department and that a gas leak had been detected, requiring them to vent the premises as soon as possible. Claims of authority and innocence are never questioned by the vast majority of the irrational apes that make up this species. People believe that I possess some omnipotent knowledge of computer software that allows me to access their information, when all it really takes to get a password or IP address is a phone call and a hapless salaryman. Once I had the information, getting it to the test or into the contest was a different challenge. I had fake labels for water bottles printed up with the nutrition and fine print replaced with the answer key. I would even write the answers on the inside rim of my glasses using a needle and white out. My favorite method was rewiring my ordinary calculators to display information when certain keys were pressed. Learning to cheat also taught me how to steal and this quickly became a passion of mine. I wouldn't steal items from stores or other students. That was for brutes. I stole information. I had cracked the databases of every school I attended, giving me access not only to grades but the permanent records of my classmates. This gave me power over them for the first time. Having the highest grades did nothing to impress the vacuous commonalities of the schoolyard, but having embarrassing information or the ability to add or subtract from their grades or records, well, let's say I made a lot of "associates" and "nemeses" from then on.

It was around this time I discovered my other passion. Riddles, puzzles, problems, conundrums, brainteasers, questions, mysteries, enigmas, and codes. My father, of course found such things juvenile and a waste of brain power, which only made my fixation grander. I would offer some of the lesser languishers of my ill-gotten information a chance to be free of my sovereignty if they could only solve one of my riddles. It was cruel, I admit it. It was only a way to make their hopeless subordination to me more unpleasant by offering them an escape they could never accomplish. I began developing my own languages, both written and spoken, and began writing my answer keys in them, even writing small confessions in the margins of my test in my secret code, just to give these poor chumps a sliver of a chance to catch me. No teacher ever figured it out, of course. This I found to be the utmost cerebral triumph. Not only had I outmaneuvered their system but I'd given them the chance to stop me if only they had been canny enough to decrypt it. You people hear of my exploits and believe this to be a sort of self-sabotaging exhibitionism. You no doubt believe that I obtain some lascivious thrill from it. I'm only giving you less significant academics a chance to use those fallow wits of yours for your own subsidy. I'm only encouraging cleverness, with the thwarting of my misdeeds as the reward. After all, as I discovered as a child at all those contests, an achievement means nothing unless the game is fair.

My relationship with my father ended when I was 16. I remember him boasting about his IQ score all my life. He'd always claimed it was 135, well into the 98th percentile. He would go on and on about MENSA denying him membership out of spite or jealousy certain key members held for him. He claimed being denied entry into such a society was more compelling evidence of his superiority than even the most esteemed invitation to it would be. Upon finding out MENSA gladly takes anyone within the 98th percentile of the intelligence quotient, regardless of their caustic personality disorders, I managed to dig up his actual IQ score. I don't have to tell you it was far below the 98th percentile. I never told him I knew the truth about him. He wouldn't have believed it even if I brought him the papers attesting to it. He had long ago convinced himself of his own truth and had no doubt completely forgotten his original test result. I was given the intelligence quotient test when I was 16 and I, of course, scored significantly higher than even my own father's false claims. I won't divulge my own tested score, only that it was higher than a cosmologist with amyotrophic lateral sclerosis and lower than an 11 year old Harvard Graduate. When he got the results, and my invitation to join MENSA, he was understandably upset. Convinced I'd cheated somehow, he claimed it had to have been a mistake. There was no way a dunce like me could score higher than he claimed he'd scored at the same age. Needless to say, I had to sleep in the hall closet for most of a month after that. Don't feel too bad for me though, I actually had cheated and both my score and the invitation to MENSA were faked. After the test I discarded my real test results and fabricated a new one with significantly high accolades. I then found the location of our local MENSA chapter house and purloined an envelope and letter head for the creation of my invitation. I wish I'd had the forethought to record or photograph the look on his face when he saw those papers. All of his dreams of having me grow up as a perfect reflection of himself, just smart enough to make him look smarter and just successful enough to make him look more successful, they all imploded when he realized he'd created a true genius, that I had been officially acknowledged to be smarter than he dared imagine himself to be. Like Victor Frankenstein in his lab, I was the monster he'd created out of his own hubris, greater than he could have imagined, so great it would destroy him. You couldn't imagine my glee. After a month of cold conversation and detachment, I decided my one time tormentor and adversary to be thoroughly defeated and set out to leave home and start life on my own. I haven't spoken to my father since, though I do check in on him once in a while, to make sure he's just as miserable now as he was when I saw him last. He of course has made no mention of me to his friends or associates since I left.

So, dear readers, how is it I came to be the man you see before you? Despite what the powers that be tell you, crime does indeed pay and cheaters always prosper. If you're simple enough to believe otherwise you don't deserve to be successful. But money means so little to the true intellectual, and gathering knowledge for its own sake is, in the end, self-serving and trite. I elected to find a different use for my vast mental arsenal. I decided to be an evaluator of intellectuals. I would use my incredible acumen to test the intellectuals of the world, to allow them the opportunity to prove their intellectual status. Instead of building my own academics endlessly, pointlessly accumulating petty currency and the honors of lesser minds, I decided instead to give back to the community of the cognoscente. Why then, you may ask, do you place them in personal peril in order to test them, rather than challenging them with harmless riddles and questions? As my father had taught me, your intelligence is only as useful as it is under the worst circumstances. I've never murdered anyone to date. Every one of my "victims" had the means of escape within their grasp. They were "murdered" by their own incompetence and unwillingness to accept my challenge. It's tragic really. In a world of equal minds, my trials would be capricious distractions at best.

So what then is the solution to the riddle posed at the outset of this soliloquy? The answer is simple. Me. What lies at the beginning of eternity, the end of time and space, the beginning of the end, and the end of every place is an E. Nigma. And as for the contents of your humble publisher's data bases, which they may find lacking a few key files, I will say this. What I found might readily be described as something you might want to share when you have it, but when you do share it you don't have it anymore. And if certain members of your humble publishing house would like those things to remain "unshared" and thus still in your "possession", you'll find a simple cypher in their place instructing you on how to go about making that happen.

Warmest Regards,

Edward Nigma


	7. Chapter 7: Black Mask

4

The asylum was in a frenzy over Nigma's breach of security and attempted blackmail. Dr. Adams was speaking with the head of security at Arkham when Trista knocked lightly on her office door. They both turned to her and gave her comically identical looks of disapproval.

"That will be all for now, Mr. Deegan. Thank you." Dr. Adams said as she stood to hand him a file before he turned to leave. Adams sat down and looked at Trista darkly over her glasses. The veins were standing out around her temples. She was not having a good day.

"Ms. Martin, we have had a rather severe security breach concerning the patient you last interviewed. Were you aware of this?"

Trista sat across from Adams and folded her legs into a comfortable position, showing none of the docility she did in her first meeting with Adams.

"My personal computer was compromised and my original article lost. Yes I am aware. Mr. Nigma was somehow able to access a computer with internet connection within the asylum and hack not only my computer but the servers at the magazine's headquarters. Would you mind telling me how that was possible?"

Adams was clearly grinding her teeth as she stared daggers at Trista.

"We've questioned all the staff on duty last night. It seems Edward Nigma was taken from his room at 3:00 am for medical reasons and transferred to the medical ward. Somewhere along the way he slipped away from the orderlies and entered the office of one of our doctors."

"Why wasn't the alarm raised once the orderlies found he was gone? He must have had a lot of time to himself."

Adams knew something; Trista could see it clearly on her face and the way her eyes wandered around the room.

"Let me tell you what I think happened. At 3 am Nigma calls the orderlies and requests a move to the medical ward, he then coerces them into letting him use the office, either by threatening or bribing them. So they let him into the office and don't raise the alarm until he tells them to. That sound about right?"

Adams' eyes locked with Trista's. "Nigma had been a relatively docile patient here until you upset him during your interview."

"Regardless of how he came upon this plot, your security was supposed to prevent it. If the integrity of the security here is in question, perhaps that would make a more interesting article for our magazine." Adams seemed to tense slightly. Trista wasn't planning on using this against Dr. Adams but she was getting tired of the second-rate treatment she'd been getting from her. Maybe now they could behave like adults and, god forbid, even become friendly. Adams looked away in resignation.

"What do you want, Ms. Martin?"

"You make it sound like black mail. I only want to write about the patients here, Dr. Adams. I have no intention of using this unfortunate incident to manipulate you, I only want to be sure my work can continue."

Adams seemed to loosen a bit and her expression softened. "Our security has been reviewed and corrected. You may continue with your interviews without concern. I've scheduled Roman Sionis for you for a date and time of your choosing."

Trista smiled genuinely and told her when to have him ready. Things would be much smoother from here on out and Trista felt a surge of power within her. It was not unlike the feeling a rancher gets after breaking in a stubborn bronco.

After speaking with her boss, who had been raging at her all morning, she learned Nigma had been bluffing about having taken anything. The onlt thing he might have found wouldn't have been any use for him,as far as she knew. The whole thing still made her nervous. If the magazine actually had sensitive information to steal she might have been forced to postpone her project and if he DID find something and knew what it meant, he might blow the whole deal. Trista's boss, when he was finished raving like a lunatic, assured her that she could continue her work. With Nigma in isolation and her computer cleaned and checked out, she was ready to begin research on her next article.

Black Mask was one of the more obscure super criminals, at least compared to Nigma. He ran what could be called a typical criminal syndicate when associated with the theatrical and unconventional enterprises the other masked criminals had created. What differentiated him from the traditional crime families of Gotham were his ruthlessness and his affinity for masks. His own mask was supposedly permanently affixed to his face, some say due to an accident. Trista thought he might be a sort of missing link between the classic crime boss and the new generation of super criminals. He supposedly controls over half of the Gotham underworld and he achieved this because, unlike the old crime families, Black Mask embraced the new wave of super criminals and welcomed the challenge of the Batman. Fingerprinting later revealed he was Roman Sionis, the youngest son of the famous Sionis Dynasty. The Sionis' have been a fixture in Gotham high society since the previous turn of the century and until the story broke several years ago they had only been rumored to be affiliated with its criminal syndicates. First the mob connections, the death of Bartholomeus Sionis, and now their youngest is revealed to be a vicious super criminal. The Sionis dynasty has all but collapsed.

Trista had already stopped by the GCPD and now the files on Black Mask were spread out on her desk. The key to Sionis is the mask. It seems to be both a signature and a talisman for him. He has at least four older brothers still alive, three are in prison and one is out of the country. She turned the pages, looking over the information on his brothers. The youngest of his older brothers was Ignatius and he is serving 15 years at Blackgate for racketeering and human trafficking. Trista thought the younger of his older brothers might have been closer to Romanus in his youth. He would be the first to talk to.

Blackgate Maximum Security Prison was just south of Gotham. It was a large gray building that looked closer to a military fort than a prison. After meeting with the warden, Trista was led back through the maze of concrete corridors to the visiting rooms. There were a few other people sitting in the small private alcoves which were lined up along a Plexiglas wall, each with a phone connected to another on the other side where guards stood sentry and inmates in orange jumpsuits spoke soundlessly to the people on her side. Ignatius Sionis came into the room on the other side and Trista motioned for him to sit across from her. He was a tall man and Trista could see the strong roman features the Sionis family was known for. He carried himself with a quiet dignity not shared by the other prisoners on the other side.

"Good morning Nate, my name is Trista Martin. Would you mind if I asked you some questions?"

"They told me you want to talk about Roman. I'm wondering why you came to me?" He studied her closely and his eyes were moss green with a spark of gold around the iris.

"I thought you might have had more of a relationship with Roman than your older brothers. Were you two close growing up?"

"He wasn't really close with any of us. I guess you could say he was the runt of the litter. He was always tagging along and trying to join in but the age gap made him a nuisance. I never picked on him like Hector and the others did but I wasn't close with him."

"Did your father treat him differently?"

Nate shifted uncomfortably. "Yeah, I guess so. I'm sure you've heard about our family's ties to organized crime, well Dad never had a problem letting us mix with their kind but Roman was different. He was more special I guess. He didn't want Roman to have anything to do with the mob. I don't know how the others felt about it, but it seemed like he was okay with us getting pulled into that world but Roman was too good for it. It's kinda funny in hindsight, isn't it? Well he wasn't allowed to mix with them and we sure didn't want that little crumb snatcher cramping our style so we just let Dad have his little morality pet."

"Did Roman show interest in crime as a child?"

"Sure. Anyone who is told they can't do something they see others doing would take an interest in it. Maybe that was the real problem with Roman. Forbidding it just made him want it even more than we did. I'll tell you something, when they told me Black Mask was really Roman, I didn't believe them. No way could that little runt be the same guy making waves in the underworld. It was like he was two people. He became someone else when he put on the mask."

"Do you think he was inspired by the rise of masked criminals in Gotham?"

Nate shook his head and rolled his eyes indignantly. "Let me tell you something, criminals in this town have gone off the deep end. In my day we were businessmen and we acted like it. These clowns with their fruity costumes and their jolly pirate nicknames, they took all the dignity out of the underworld. Only Roman would buy into that nonsense."

"Do you think the death of your father may have pushed him into the role of Black Mask permanently?"

"Look, I don't care what that little freak does anymore. As far as I'm concerned it was his fault the Sabatonis turned on the Sionis family and it was his fault Dad was killed and the family business went under. If he wants to pretend every day is Halloween, that's fine, but the kid was playing with fire and ending up burning our house down. Roman is dead to me. Are we done here?"

Trista could see the tension in the veins of his neck and nodded to him before packing up her bag. Ignatius slammed the phone on the receiver and left without saying another word.

After speaking with the warden, Trista discovered one of Black Mask's subordinates was currently incarcerated here so she decided to save herself a trip and arrange a meeting. The man was named Max Rothman and he stood at least 6 and a half feet. His face was grizzled and lined with stress and his eyes were sunken but sharp. He sat down across the glass from Trista with a leering smile, his forearms covered in various tattoos.

His voice was thick and had a tinge of Irish to it. "Well hello, beautiful. Conjugals are Tuesdays and Thursdays only but I know a way to make an exception." He winked at her and Trista mentally rolled her eyes as she gave him a bashful smile.

"Mr. Rothman, I just want to talk. It's about your former boss."

Max's smile didn't waver but his eyes lit up at the mention of his boss. "You want to talk about Mask? Fine. What you wanna know?"

"I'm going to be writing an article about him and I just wanted to know what he was like from someone who…'worked' with him."

Max leaned back in a comfortable position and crossed his hands behind his head. "I been on the streets since I was 15. In and out of gangs, doing whatever for whoever. I done work for the Sabatinos, the Falcones, even the O'Bannon brothers. None of them comes close to Black Mask. He had this energy to him. Passion. The other mobs, it was all business, cold and calculating. For Mask it was more than that. It was like he'd found his calling and he loved everything about it. That kind of energy is contagious and everyone who worked with him felt it. That was how he wiped out so much competition. That and his endless energy. He was always focused on the next move. He lived every moment in the moment. No fear, no distractions. If it didn't matter he let it slide. No one else compared."

"Why did he wear the mask?"

"I was put off by it at first. But after watching him work, the mask seemed to disappear, you know? It was just him. I never seen him without it and honestly I don't really care to. He was that mask and we all accepted that. That's why he encouraged us to find our own."

Trista leaned forward, intrigued. "He made you wear masks?" Max shook his head.

"He didn't make us, he convinced us. He told us a mask was more powerful than a gun. It allows what's hidden to come out. It hides a lie so you can tell the truth. By finding our own mask, we become who we want to be. Look, I grew up in hard times. I learned to toughen up but no matter how tough you think you are that nagging doubt stays with you. It's like we wear shame like weights to keep us grounded. Putting on a mask lets you drop that weight and let go. It sounds like bullshit but its true. The jobs I did with Mask…I never felt so free. We all felt it, at least everyone I knew. Putting on a mask meant becoming someone else, someone you create for yourself. I know that's why he wears his mask and why he never takes it off."

"Why doesn't he?"

Max smiled and shook his head. "He don't take it off because he aint really wearing one. He is Black Mask and whoever he was before is gone. He is truly a self-made man."

For the interview, Trista wore a black business jacket and skirt and tied her hair back in a neat bun. She reserved one of the nicer offices with the large conference table and had everything set as though she were meeting with an important executive. She requested the patient be allowed to wear street clothes for the meeting and be given privacy. Trista didn't need Adams looking over her shoulder anymore and Adams was backing down enough for her to get away with it. They brought him in without restraints or guards and left without a word. He stood just over 6 feet tall and wore a pure white dress shirt and pants. His face appeared as an ebony skull with multiple interlocking plates of polished obsidian. The mask covered his entire head and his eyes were the only hint that the skull wasn't his true face. They were strikingly bright and seemed to sparkle out of the holes of the skull like emeralds in a dark cave. Trista stood when he entered the room and went over to greet him.

"Thank you for coming."

"Not at all." He said, his voice was smooth and dark and the jaw of the skull moved with his own when he talked. He sat down at the head of the table and studied her. Trista sat up straight in her chair and opened the files. He watched her retrieve the recorder and set it on the oak table next to her and click the record button, turning a small red light on at the top.

"This conversation will be recorded. I hope you don't mind, Mr…?"

"Black Mask." He said quickly.

"Very well. According to the reports, your real name is Romanus Sionis. Is that right?"

"That isn't my real name. I already told you my real name."

Trista looked puzzled. "You mean the name you chose for yourself?"

"We all choose our names, even if that name is the one we're given by our parents. A name is just another kind of mask we put on for our own benefit."

"Then your name wasn't Roman Sionis before you chose this new name?"

Black Mask shook his head, clearly exasperated.

"Do you want to write about Romanus Sionis or Black Mask?"

"How about I write how one became the other?"

He took a calming breath and thought for a moment.

"Very well. I'll tell you the story of Roman Sionis and how he died many years ago."


	8. Chapter 8: Sionis

Eyes Without a Face

People ask me all the time, why do you wear the mask? They ask me who I really am. They want to know if I'm different people wearing the same mask. All it takes is a barrier between yourself and other people and suddenly everyone wants to know who you are. Nobody cared who I was before I wore the mask. No one had the time to listen to my story before I put something between my identity and the public. Wearing a mask is like writing "do not read" on the cover of a book; you're hiding something, but in such a way that it makes everyone want to know what it is. The easiest way to get people's attention is to demand they not pay attention to you. I can then understand your curiosity at my true identity. The problem is, I'm not wearing a mask. Beneath this face are only bone, blood, organs, and tissue. The mask is my identity. I am Black Mask. No doubt you've heard the authorities have identified me as one Roman Sionis, but I'm afraid they don't realize that poor man died quite some time ago. His was a tragic tale. I will tell you the story of his life and maybe this will show you he and I are not one and the same.

Roman was born Romanus Octavius Sionis, the eighth son of the Sionis family, headed by none other than the roman billionaire Bartholomeus Sionis. You've no doubt heard of the family's recent troubles and connections with certain Gotham crime families. Bartholomeus maintained his innocence as long as he could but the evidence says otherwise. While seeming to run a legitimate steel empire, Bartholomeus had been working closely with crime families and practicing corruption at its highest levels in secret. You could say the man you knew as the father of modern steel in Gotham had been a mask all along. For young Roman, being the eighth child of such a powerful family had its advantages and drawbacks. His seven older brothers were each groomed to enter into the family business in some aspect, even the criminal ones, but not Roman. Roman was what you might call a surprise birth and one which came about at the height of tensions in the Gotham underworld, tensions which would peak with the murder of Thomas and Martha Wayne, another wealthy family native to Gotham. In the midst of such uncertainties, Bartholomeus seemed to have a change of heart. He explained to all who knew of his criminal dealings that such underhanded tactics were a necessary element of any successful business empire. One did not do business in Gotham without the approval of Gotham's underworld and such relationships were inevitable. This, he explained, was the reason the Waynes had met with their unfortunate fate. Altruists through and through, they believed they could succeed without the powerful influence of the Gotham underworld. And they did for quite some time, before they were made an example of. Roman's father saw this as a tragedy of the highest order, having known Martha and Thomas personally and having engaged in many debates with them over this very issue in the past. Their murder had opened his eyes and he realized how he had been manipulated into shady business practices by fear and a desire to succeed. He'd decided his youngest son would have no part in such things. This he believed would save his son from such a path, but in the end would only end up pushing him further onto it than any Sionis had before.

It was in his grade school years that he became infatuated with the culture of masks. After a trip to the Gotham Museum, he would return daily to look at the exhibit on masks throughout history. The oldest masks were found to be over 9,000 years old. The word mask itself comes from many sources, as there are masks in almost every culture in human history. In Middle French, masque meant "a covering to hide or guard." Masks could be worn for the benefit of its wearer, for protection or to channel energy; or to the benefit of those around the wearer, to entertain or intimidate. They could hide an identity or change it into another. The Spanish referred to it as más que la cara, or "more than the face" or "added face". Roman's favorite interpretation was the Old French word mascurer, meaning "to black the face".

As he grew, Roman's father kept from him the dark side of business, something it was too late to attempt with his older sons, who had all been drawn by the allure of criminal greed. The Gotham underworld had been quick to seduce the offspring of Sionis, knowing they would be the future of the Sionis name. This, what may have been the deciding factor for the old man on the matter, became the most damning evidence for young Roman that his father was not protecting him from this world, but excluding him from it. He had believed himself somehow unworthy of this business which his brothers seemed so enthusiastic about. His brothers also noticed the young Roman's exclusion from the criminal element and proceeded to tease him endlessly for it. Perhaps they felt a pang of jealously for their father's attempts to spare his youngest son from the corruption they had been so readily taken into. It wasn't long after the young Roman came of age that he began delving into the criminal underworld despite his father's protests. He would beg his brothers to bring him along on their trysts through the nightclubs and penthouses of Gotham's seedy underbelly, and they would refuse, on the grounds that their father would not approve. Roman knew they believed, as his father did, that he was simply unworthy of joining them in their world. Determined, and now being in his sixteenth year, he set out one night on his own.

He followed his oldest brother, Hector Sionis, to a night club downtown. Coming and going were Gotham's criminal elite, along with the more respectable members of Gotham's high society. Everything was lavish, expensive, and most importantly, utterly exclusive. When Roman attempted to enter, he was barred by a rather large man who demanded an invitation. Though Roman tried to convince him he was of the Sionis family and that his oldest brother was in attendance, he must have seen the fear and anxiety on Roman's face because he had him discreetly removed from the line, claiming he'd never heard of him. Roman even caught sight of Hector, calling out to him. Hector saw him being held back by the guards, looked surprised but simply turned away as though he didn't know him. This seemed to decide things for the guards and they pushed him into the street. Abandoned by his brother and refused entry, Roman was alone and lost on the bad side of the city. Having taken a taxi to get there, he had no means of getting home, so he walked. A sheltered young man now walking the mean streets of Gotham alone, you can imagine what happened next. They seemed to materialize out of the shadows, three of them. They wore black ski masks over their faces and shouted demands in a cacophony of swears and broken English. Roman, completely terrified, broke down and cowered as they kicked and pulled at his expensive clothes. After they had taken anything of value, including his patent leather shoes, they seemed to dematerialize back into the shadows from whence they came. Broken, cold, and utterly alone, Roman wandered in a daze, jumping at every sound and watching his steps for broken glass or nails. At last he stood under the bright light of a sign which read "Sionis Steel". He'd found one of his father's many steel factories. Rushing inside like a man seeking asylum, he found the night manager, and after much debate, convinced him to let him use the phone to call his father. The manager no doubt believed him to be a crazed run away, but allowed him to use the phone none the less, possibly so he would have the chance to call the police if he needed to. His father arrived shortly, thanked the manager for helping his son, and took Roman home. All the way home, his father was as silent and still as a statue. Roman had never seen his father angry before and it scared him worse than the hostile streets had. At home, his father railed at him, saying he could have been killed or kidnapped and held ransom. When he asked Roman why he'd been down there in the first place, Roman told him about the club. At this Bartholomeus lost his temper completely. He told him again why he was to have no part in that world, why he had sheltered him from it. Roman began to argue but his father's rage silenced him. When the smoke had cleared, Roman returned to his room and his father went out to find and chastise his oldest son.

This had been what could be called a turning point for young Roman. Ashamed of his fear, his inability to enter that world, and his crawling back to the safety of his father; he had become more determined than ever before. He began studying the history and tactics of the organized criminal, he learned how to handle firearms and simple self-defense. On Halloween of his twenty-first year, he would seize his chance to enter that forbidden world. His father and his seven older brothers would be attending a masquerade ball at the home of one of Gotham's most powerful crime families. Everyone in attendance would be hidden behind masks, and this would allow him to go undetected by his family, and more importantly, to shed his meek personality in favor of a stronger, more dangerous one. If he was to gain entrance and avoid detection, he would have to become someone new. In ancient Rome, his ancestors would don masks for the Saturnalia festival. Masks gave them freedom, freedom from status or reputation. Behind a mask, slave or king, they were equal. They were free to be as drunk and reckless as they wanted. Free to be the person they'd always wanted to be. He went to a famous sculptor and had a mask custom made from obsidian and black leather in the shape of a solemn and powerful face; the face of a dark roman god. At the masquerade, he felt power and confidence for the first time. People looked at him admiringly, they asked him over and over who he was and he evaded their questions deftly. He walked taller, spoke louder and commanded attention. So changed was his personality that his own father greeted him as a stranger. Roman had invented an identity for himself that night. He was the head of an organization, known only as Black Mask, and looking for prospects and expansion opportunities in Gotham. When pressed for details, he'd say his business was in sales and marketing, a slang term in the Gotham elite for illegal commerce. He was the center of attention, even overshadowing his own brothers. Everyone wanted to know who this young masked socialite was. After the ball, Roman walked the streets, feeling none of the fear and confusion of that night. When a figure materialized from the shadows, knife in hand, Roman faced the man down, his obsidian face giving him a terrifying countenance. Full of power and free of his own insecurities, he simply stared down the man with the knife, ignoring his increasingly desperate demands for money and jewelry. The fight or flight response pushed to the breaking point within him, the man threw the knife away before turning to run. Roman knelt and picked up the knife, looking at his reflection in the blade, a solemn ebony face stared back at him.

That was the night Black Mask was created. Coming home, he resumed his life as Romanus Sionis, continuing his financial portfolio and investing in interests, all under his father's watchful eye. But at night, Black Mask began making appearances at the night clubs and social gatherings of Gotham's underworld. The mask made him the center of everyone's attention. He sat at tables with high ranking officials and mafia families. He bought drinks for the social elite, made contacts, forged connections. Everyone wanted to know his name and what kind of operations he was interested in bringing to Gotham, even his own brothers were constantly hounding him and praising his influence, unaware that the face beneath was that of their worthless baby brother.. At first he merely posed as the head of a criminal syndicate, but soon he received offers from enforcers and drug runners, offering him their services and loyalty. Soon he had an impressive workforce of thugs and con-men spreading the name of Black Mask through the Gotham underworld. It was only a matter of time before some of the other crime families began to see him as competition and their attitude toward him turned hostile. Upon hearing this, Roman began to panic, naturally, but then he looked at the mask. Would Black Mask fear these men? What would Black Mask do? Inspired by the bold actions of the masked vigilante Batman and the various costumed super-criminals that had risen to prominence, Roman knew the time for decisive action was now.

The age of the crime families was ending. The aggressive actions of the Batman and the rise of similarly masked criminal masterminds had shown the people of Gotham the true colors of the long feared criminal organizations. A new era of crime was just beginning, an era of masked crime. Masks were no longer worn to hide identity, but to enhance it. Surely this Batman had discovered the power a mask can offer. As a man, he is no doubt unremarkable, nobody special, but with his mask he inspires fear and becomes more than just a man. That power has allowed him to bring the criminal underworld to its knees. These masked criminals, they do away with the anonymity crime had originally depended on. They boldly claim responsibility for their deeds regardless of their severity, daring the hapless defenders of the law to stop them. This was the new face of crime; a masked face. It was time for Gotham to know the real Black Mask.

It should be noted that shortly before this time; Roman's father had begun a friendly relationship with the young orphan to the Wayne family, Bruce. He had in fact wanted the two of them to become friends as it seemed young Bruce had inherited his father's altruistic outlook on business and he felt his neglected son could benefit from the influence. Roman, however, never cared to form a relationship with the Wayne orphan, being too consumed with his new persona. Black Mask began making moves against the Sabatino family, the very family his own father had gone into business with so many years ago. He commanded his troops to seize territory and he began to undercut the rackets and criminal enterprises that had once been dominated by the Sabatinos. Utilizing his business savvy and years of insider experience watching his father's dealings with them, Black Mask became a clear and present danger to the Sabatino's hold on Gotham. During this rising conflict, Roman had neglected his alternate identity as Bartholomeus' youngest son and questions began to be asked. When Bartholomeus went to the Sabatinos to tell them his youngest son has been away without contact since earlier that year and to ask if he had been in contact with them, they made the connection. Up to this point, Black Mask's operation had been bloodless for the most part. He still lacked the ruthless heart of the crime lord. In a sense, he was still only pretending to be Black Mask. When the Sabatinos extended a ceasefire in the hopes of peaceful negotiations, Roman had no idea the depths a criminal organization would go to in order to maintain power.

They called the meeting at the ancestral home of Bartholomeus Sionis and Black Mask appeared at the home of Roman Sionis for the first and last time. It was at that meeting, in the same dining hall he had eaten in as a child and surrounded by his father and all seven of his brothers, that the head of the Sabatino crime family, Giovanni Sabatino, revealed that he knew the Sionis family had connections with the Black Mask organization. Bartholomeus denied this of course, Black Mask merely sat silent, but Giovanni went on to say that Black Mask had information about Sabatino's operations that he could only have gotten from this family. Each of Roman's brothers in turn denied any dealings with him. Giovanni then called attention to the fact that one member of the Sionis family was not present. Bartholomeus stood abruptly, anger replacing fear. His youngest son, Romanus, had never been included in his business affairs, he claimed, and had no reason to be present. Bartholomeus then turned to Black Mask and pleaded with him to tell Sabatino that he had no connection with his family. Black Mask had not spoken a word since the meeting was called and only shook his head. Giovanni then told Bartholomeus that if he did not produce his youngest son and prove his innocence, he would have the Sionis fortune dissolved and his family incarcerated. Roman's father pleaded with him but Giovanni never looked away from Black Mask. He asked if Black Mask had anything to say in Mr. Sionis' defense. I don't have to tell you Roman was frozen with panic and had been since the meeting turned on his family. Bartholomeus then cried out, demanding Black Mask speak and clear his son's name, that he clear all their names. Roman said nothing. Giovanni calmly told Black Mask that he knew his true identity and that if he did not want the Sionis family destroyed and his identity made public, he would give up without a fight. Black Mask simply bowed his head. Giovanni made a gesture and two hands grabbed Black Mask from behind, restraining him. The thugs brought him over to Giovanni and held him down before him. He then asked Black Mask how long he could keep pretending to be a real criminal. He went on about the way criminals in this town used to be respectable, honorable. How they were now nothing but children playing dress up, not simple business men like him. "What would your father say, if he saw you like this?" Giovanni asked with a smug grin, drawing a hand gun and putting it to the silent obsidian figure before him.

The last mistake Giovanni Sabatino ever made was taking off that mask before shooting Roman Sionis. At seeing that it was his own youngest son who had been the feared crime lord Black Mask, Bartholomeus flew into a rage, grabbing the gun and shooting Giovanni before firing at the thugs who'd held his son. An all-out fire fight broke out between the two gangs, which ended up destroying the Sionis family home and takings the lives of two of Roman's brothers as well as his father. After the smoke cleared, it was revealed that the Sabatinos had already made public the long history of crimes the Sionis family was tied to. Roman's older brothers were all arrested and he was left as the sole heir of his father's estate, what little was left of it. One man however came forward to defend the Sionis family and had contributed a financial bailout of the Sionis steel industry. It had been the orphan billionaire Bruce Wayne. Roman, however, took this gesture of kindness as one final insult. Roman believed Mr. Wayne was simply taking advantage of his father's misfortune to expand his own wealth under the guise of charity for the poor orphaned son of the late Bartholomeus Sionis. He knew the mask of virtue worn by the elite of Gotham all too well. Roman Sionis disappeared. Half-crazy with grief and anger, Roman broke into the mausoleum containing his father's casket. He stole the black mahogany lid of the coffin and his late father's head before disappearing into the night. He had the wood fashioned into pieces of a new mask, the face he had crafted from the skull of his own father, coated with obsidian stone. As a final touch, he had the mask permanently affixed to his face, a painful and risky operation, but one which Roman Sionis never awoke from. The eyes which opened were the eyes of Black Mask, now staring out from an ebony grinning skull. Roman Sionis was dead, his face forgotten.

From that night on, the criminal organization of Black Mask became known as the False-face society, a terrifying new breed of villains. In addition to being thugs and con-men, every member was required to wear a mask of their choosing when representing the gang. These masks, he preached, would allow a death of the ego and give the wearer new freedom and deeper drives never imagined possible. A mask would allow them to look the way they wanted, to kill the way they wanted, they would be smarter, more capable, and most importantly, they would be free in all the ways they weren't before. The mask was their talisman, their signature, and the source of their power, a power they would use to bring Gotham city to its knees; the true power of Black Mask.

You want to know who I really am behind the mask? To you I would ask, "What mask?" When a mask no longer hides an identity of the wearer but instead represents the true identity of the wearer, it ceases to be a mask. It is no longer a "covering to hide or guard", it is an "added face", it is "more than the face". I would say to you that I am not wearing a mask at all. That I am and ever shall be, Black Mask.


	9. Chapter 9: Penguin

5

Trista stood outside the Asylum as police and EMS buzzed around like angry hornets. She spotted Dr. Hilleman with a few of the other doctors standing to the side and watching the activity. He smiled when he saw her and waved her over.

"Asylum's closed today. An orderly was killed." He said as he nodded to the police. Trista looked shocked but really she was annoyed. This was going to set her back, maybe even undo some of the progress she'd made with Adams.

"What happened?"

"Mr. Zasaz happened. One of the orderlies, a new guy I'm sure, got too close before Zasaz was fully secured and he grabbed him. The kid was dead before the ambulances got here."

Trista was relieved slightly, at least it couldn't be blamed on her.

"How long until the Asylum is open again?"

"I think they'll start letting visitors back in after a couple days. Looks like you've got some time off." He smiled at her suggestively and she gave him a bashful smirk. Great, what the hell am I supposed to do until then? She thought as they watched the police come and go.

She recognized one of the cops from her many trips to the GCPD and managed to get the story out of him. It seems Mr. Zasaz slipped one of his restraints as the young orderly was securing him and grabbed the man by the throat, crushing his trachea like an empty soda can and strangling him before the others could get him off. He did all this while under enough tranquilizers to bring down a bull. No one knows how he did it. Trista was stunned. She left the commotion around the asylum lost in her own thoughts.

Hilleman caught up with her on her way to the bus stop. Trista rolled her eyes, in no mood for his puppy love bullshit.

"Hey! Seeing as we're both out of work today, you want to get some lunch?" Trista could see the anxious excitement in his eyes and almost turned him down.

"Doctor " She said in mock surprise. "Are you asking me out on a date?" She watched him stammer and back track nervously and after she couldn't watch anymore she agreed.

They ended up finding a sandwich place downtown. They sat in the back booth while tinny music drifted to them from the kitchen.

"So have you ever seen him?" Trista asked. Hilleman shook his head.

"I mean, I've seen him on TV, on the news, but never face to face. I've only been here a few years. I know people who've seen him, but I never have. I can see why some people think he's a myth." He finished off his sandwich and rolled the wrapper into a ball. Trista looked over at a kid wearing a shirt with the symbol of the Batman on it.

"You think he apporves all that merchandise they put out? Do they send him scripts for the movies and TV shows?" Trista rolled her eyes. She hated the way our culture took anything interesting and original and duplicated it until it becomes meaningless. Like when you say a word over and over until it loses all meaning and becomes strange phonic sounds. Hilleman shrugged.

"I think Wayne Studios owns the rights to it. Its not like a wanted vigilante can file a copyright claim on his image. Maybe Bruce Wayne made a deal with him? Or he IS him, like some people think." He had yet to look Trista in the eyes and it was getting on her nerves. Get over yourself already.

"Wayne had been in a wheelchair since the 60's after someone tried to kill him because they thought he was the Batman. Everything he's said since then indicates that he resents the Batman for it. He probably copyrighted his symbol and image to spite him. Now its worth millions. I guess two wrongs can make a right." Hilleman laughed and nodded noncommittally. Trista was finding him more and more boring. She wanted him to say something interesting, to disagree with her, to make some kind of effort besides trying not to do anything stupid in front of her. Maybe she has been spending too much time talking with psychotics. She had forgotten how to talk to normal people, or maybe she just lost her taste for normal people. Either way, she was quietly seething as he made small talk.

"Is there anyone outside of Arkham who fits the super criminal profile?" She asked, interrupting his story she had been ignoring. She was hoping for disapproval, maybe a polite rapprochement. But of course he just answered her as though he hadn't been talking and Trista had to hide her eyes rolling by looking away.

"I guess there's Blackgate. Its mostly guys who work for the super criminals, but there are a few who either aren't dangerous enough or crazy enough to be sent to Arkham. A few mob bosses, I think the Penguin is serving time there."

Trista perked up. "Penguin." She had forgotten about him. He wasn't technically a super criminal, since his eccentricities were limited to a nickname and a love of birds, but he is still one of the most influential crime lords in Gotham and he has gone toe to tow with the Batman more than once. Trista decided he might be worth a look after all.

The next morning Trista sat in a plain prison visitor room at Blackgate. The files in front of her had the name Oswald Cobblepot across the front and a stout older man with dark hair and sharp features sneered up from the mugshots. For most of his life in Gotham he was considered a legitimate businessman. He owned a successful restaurant and lounge in downtown Gotham and was at one time ranked among the most successful entrepreneurs on the east coast. It was only during his unsuccessful run for mayor of Gotham that his shady business practices and connections with the criminal underworld came to light. He was currently serving a scant 7 years at Blackgate for fraud and extortion.

He came in wearing a simple black vest with a white shirt and slacks, his dark hair slicked back. He stood no more than 4 feet tall and his limbs were stumpy and thick. He had all the hallmarks of dwarfism, enlarged forehead, uneven gait, upturned nose. He was about 47 and had gained considerable weight since he'd been arrested. Even so, there was an intensity to him that stifled any humor you might find in his appearance. He looked at Trista with a practiced polite smile and offered his hand. Trista shook it gently and noted his ice blue eyes which scanned her subtly. It was clear from his demeanor and clothes that his wealth has softened prison life for him considerably. The guards, which had insisted on being present when she spoke with the other prisoners, had given them privacy. He sat across from her and lit a long cigarette, offering one to her politely. She declined only because she believed he only offered it as a gesture and would rather she didn't actually take one. As he drew the smoke into his chest he motioned to the room and said.

"What brings you to visit the world renowned criminal rehabilitation center known as the Arthur Blackgate Maximum Security Correctional Facility?"

"I'm writing a series of articles about the super criminal phenomena and I'd like to include you."

Oswald chuckled amiably and tapped his ash onto the tabletop. "You think I am one of those, what did you call them? Super criminals? Where do you publish?"

Trista pulled a copy of Cognition out of her bag and passed it to Oswald. He looked at it speculatively and nodded. "A psychological journal. I'm afraid you won't find me all that interesting, for you see, I am quite sane."

"Yet you exhibit many of the same tendencies. You have an alias, you tend to work within a theme, and you've had frequent run ins with the Batman."

Oswald let out a grunt and sneered down at the magazine. "I must say, the Batman certainly brings these things out in people. He is like a barrel of radioactive waste dropped in a pond and now everything he touches either withers or mutates."

Trista made a note to remember that and use it in a later article. She only wished she's thought to turn her recorder on before now. As she dug the recorder out of her bag to set it up she asked him,

"Why do you call yourself the Penguin?"

Oswald leaned forward onto his elbows and tapped the last of his cigarette out on the table before lighting another. He regarded her with some amusement.

"Let me tell you something about yourself first. Firstly, I know you'd never considered me for one of your articles and if you did, you'd dismissed me. I know about the recent troubles at Arkham which is why you began dipping into your backlogs for anyone not currently a patient at Arkham, which brought you to me. I know all this because I know you don't think much of me. People see me, they may laugh or feel pity, then they forget me. Even in the criminal underworld the sight of a midget in a tuxedo who walks like a penguin does little to intimidate or inspire respect, but I'll tell you something. When the name Penguin enters their lives they sit up and take notice. When they start losing business and territory to a midget in a penguin suit, they stop laughing. Of course by then it's too late. Let me tell you why they call me the Penguin, and more importantly, why I call myself that."


	10. Chapter 10: Cobblepot

Why do I call myself the Penguin? Well aside from my love of formal wear and marine biology, your first clue would be my short stature and loping gait. I was born with a condition known as achondroplasia, which is a form of genetic dwarfism causing shortness of bones. As you might have conjectured, it was a name assumed to me by those who find my condition amusing and wish to slight me for it. So why take on the moniker myself, if it was meant to be demeaning? It seems counterintuitive does it not? Most of those with my condition wish only to be treated equally by others and would never draw attention to it in such a, if you'll pardon the pun, belittling way. To explain I must first go back to the circumstances which brought about my birth.

My parents were none other than Natalie and Carver Cobblepot, of the famous Cobblepot dynasty which has lived in and around Gotham for over a century. My conception occurred under tense conditions for my parents. Already having two adolescent boys under their charge, the news of my arrival came as a shock to my parents, though not in the reason you may think. The shock came because my mother and father had not engaged in voluptuaries for several years. News of my conception came from a young erotic dancer from a seedy dive known as "Mini Skirts" down on the Gotham docks, a burlesque house which employed only women with dwarfism. The news of my father's infidelity, combined with my conception and the embarrassing nature of my father's sexual inclinations, created quite the tumult in the Cobblepot home. With my birth mother threatening to go public with the embarrassing situation, an agreement had to be reached. She would receive regular payments to ensure her nondisclosure and immediate departure from Gotham. My father had wanted me to be given up for adoption, but his wife insisted I be raised in their household instead. This was not an act of compassion for me, you understand, but rather a constant reminder to my father of his past mistakes. I was my mother's personal revenge against my father and a guarantee that his adulterous ways would cease. I was given the name Oswald Chesterfield Cobblepot and raised as a member of the famous Cobblepot family. This would be considered a blessing by most. I had avoided a life of squalor and shame with my promiscuous mother, and a confused and transitory life within foster homes and orphanages, to be raised with money, power, and opportunity. I never considered my life to be blessed, but I acknowledge the advantages given to me, despite the cruelties I would endure.

Being my mother's personal revenge against my father made the relationship between he and I strained to say the least. He was distant, dismissive, and at times vindictive. My older brothers had a similar relationship with me, although they enjoyed being vindictive more than being dismissive. Being older, larger, and more normally proportioned than I, they regularly visited childish cruelties upon me from a young age. The only one of my family to show me any compassion was my mother. Despite the vindictive nature of my presence in her home, I believe she took pity on me. She was by no means a kind and nurturing mother, but she never derided me or harmed me in any way, which was about as close to kindness I was likely to receive in those times. You may think I am bitter toward my family for their treatment of me, that I resent them and carry the anger with me to this day. That is not so. I hated them with a great passion at the time of course, but in retrospect they did me a kindness they never intended. I learned independence, humility, patience, and determination. Being subjected to cruelties regularly made the cruelties success and failure might inflict less intimidating. The two things that threaten the human spirit more than anything else are wealth and admirations. You can find countless stories about people of great potential being corrupted and destroyed by sudden affluence and esteem. Being treated the way I had, I was allowed to use both wealth and power without it using me. Malice had inoculated me against the hubris of mammon. Because of their unkindness I was immune to the common dangers to one's character that being born into wealth and title presents to any child. One need only look to the current state of my brothers to see the pitfalls I avoided. They are both drug addicts, hedonists, and financial failures who were far too busy enjoying their life of privilege to learn anything about business or conduct. The only way they can continue their frivolity is by making spectacles of themselves in the media, trading dignity for funding, not unlike what my birth mother had done before having me.

I cannot remember ever feeling the way a child is expected to feel while in childhood. To the best of my recollections I have always felt I was the person I feel I am today. I saw things with a clarity and maturity that at times was almost painful, even when I was considered young and naive. This detached maturity made it easier to cope with the challenges of someone in my situation. For example, upon entering school, I was, of course, the target of ridicule and violence by my larger peers. As I endured their vicious attacks I began to study them and experiment. I tried retaliating, at first mildly, and gauging their reaction. There seemed to be a threshold at which my retaliation warranted more severe treatment from them. If I retaliated mildly, they would laugh. If I applied more force, out maneuvered them or fooled them, they would redouble their efforts to cause me suffering. Then I found there was a point, if my retaliation was severe enough, their resolve would break. In my charter school, there were three older boys who had targeted me and regularly visited cruelties upon me, until one day I had lead them to the back room of the commissary. Boys like them were quick to anger and they let it control them. My anger was cold and steady, giving me more control instead of robbing me of it. Once there I sprang my trap. The school custodian had agreed to aid me in my task and with proper financial compensation had no qualms with smashing the first boy's knee in with an aluminum bat and knocking the second unconscious. With the door locked behind us, the third boy began to apologize and plead with me. I could have accepted that and let them go, but I had learned by that point that breaking a man's bones was not enough to truly defeat him. They would limp home, lick their wounds, and set out to avenge their injuries on me two-fold. If I was to be rid of these rivals, I would have to defeat them not only that day, but each and every day that would follow. I had learned through years of pain and fear that if someone challenges you, you're obligated to destroy them completely. The human spirit accepts nothing less than total obliteration before considering itself defeated. You see, I am not a killer, I simply win – thoroughly. So I gave the custodian permission to continue and he began to bludgeon the fallen boys without mercy as their terrified compatriot watched. I believe one of them made a full recovery while the other spent his life in a wheel chair. The message was received and I never crossed paths with them again.

I learned a valuable lesson then that has been key to every success I have enjoyed since. True strength isn't about size, or muscle, or looks. It's about strategy, delay of gratification, and the long term plan. It's about determination, perseverance, and getting up every single damned time they kick you down. Once my physical being was no longer in peril, I was able to turn my focus to studying business and finance. My father had been a brilliant financial tactician and I learned from him as much as I could, not directly of course. In an ironic twist, as I began to master business and accounting, my father began to fail at it. He had begun making poor business choices and investments which not only embarrassed but nearly bankrupted him. He became a sort of laughing stock among the Gotham elite. If one were to trace the origins of his financial mistakes, one might be surprised to find they began around the time of my birth. Those that knew him claimed he had changed after that event, became more anxious and unsure. They thought he might have just lost his nerve, or that his success up to that point had been pure luck. As much as I resented my father, I, like any boy, wanted more than anything for him to accept and love me. I thought if I could succeed in business and finance I could earn his respect. This pushed me and focused my efforts. I was quickly positioned at the top of every class and had more awards and honors than any of my brothers. My father, however, took my success and achievement as an offence. Seeing the bastard child who had brought misery and ruin to his life succeed beyond even his legitimate sons was almost unbearable for him. It seemed no matter what I did, I could never earn his love, and upon realizing this, my father turned from a role model and mentor, into just another obstacle in my life.

I began planning the week before I would graduate from the Gotham University with top honors in the field of business. The opportunity came when news of a murdered girl appeared in the media. This woman had been sexually assaulted and stabbed to death on a university campus north of Gotham. The police had apprehended a homeless teenager and connected him with the murder by camera footage and finding items belonging to the murdered girl in his possession. The police and community seemed content to believe this random runaway had committed the murder and left it at that. However, when I heard the girl in question was born with dwarfism, I began to draw the connections. The homeless kid had no history of murder or sexual assault and had in fact only recently been brought into town by someone he claimed had been a cop. My own research uncovered that the boy had been brought to the campus and promised free items which someone claimed they were donating to him. The cameras which had captured him in the area when the girl had been found, merely saw him going to the designated place he was told he could pick up the items. It was clear to me that whoever gave this kid the items had been the true killer and that he was being set up to take the fall. He was the perfect match for it, a young runaway with a history of mental problems and assault. When the identity of the girl came out, the family resemblance was unmistakable. It took only my name and a few well-placed investments to find out who the killer was and who had arranged it. My father had apparently grown tired of paying for my birth mother's silence. Perhaps it was due to stress, resentment toward me, or simply his current financial woes, whatever the case, he had decided to cut himself free of this liability for good. Now I had my ace in the hole and I came to him with my proposal.

Given our strained relationship, I knew he would never include me in a will or trust fund. In order for me to enact my financial plans I would need startup money. The last day I spoke with my father I went into his office and handed him my offer. My offer was in fact a press release detailing the ill-fated circumstances of my conception, the false documents and certificates created to cover up said circumstances, and the untimely demise of my birth mother, including the suspicious circumstances surrounding her death. He was justifiably distressed. However, I offered a solution which would benefit us both. He was to put me on the payroll of his company as an outside consultant. In exchange for my salary my job would be to simply never send out this distressing document. I assured him this job would not require me to contact him ever again and in the event of my death or a breach of our contract, this information would be placed in the hands of members of the press and his career would be forfeit. He went into the predictable hysterics, throwing himself around the room, cursing the day I was born, even going so far as to attack me with his cane. Laughing through the blood and pain, I told him he could hit me as much as he wanted, by all means. We both knew he couldn't kill me and we both knew he would be signing the contract in the end. Something seemed to break inside his eyes at that. I saw the moment my father's spirit broke. He signed the contract and had security remove me from the building. I received my first paycheck the very next day.

So why call myself the Penguin? Because I learned how to take a detriment and turn it into an advantage. I took what my tormentors used to disparage me and used it to control them. I have been in business in this town for a long time now, both above board and under the table business. The one advantage I have over every other privileged banker and shrewd con-man is they all see me as a joke. They underestimate me. They all look at my success as either a miracle or a mistake, but to me it was just habit. Just like the older boys at school or my own family, everyone either hates me or disregards me. What am I to do? Hide myself away? Kiss everyone's ass until they love me? I've found only one way to change that, and that is to be so successful and powerful that they can't ignore me. They look at me and all they see is a midget in a penguin suit, right up until I snatch their business out from under them, cut the brakes in their parent's car, and syphon away their inheritance, leaving them with nothing. That's when they realize what I really am; a ruthless, vindictive, calculating, inventive, and dangerous man. In short, better than them.


	11. Chapter 11: Mr Zasaz

6

The asylum reopened its doors after three days in lockdown. There was a small story in the news about it but otherwise everything had returned to normal. Trista had already decided who she would request for her next interview. Victor Zasaz. Though considered more of a serial killer than super criminal, Zasaz stands out as the most prolific killer in the country with well over 300 victims from every race, class, and religion. His body is covered in hundreds of scars which represent tallies for each victim. Why he keeps track this way no one knows for sure since no one seems to be able to get close to him. He has added many of his tallies while incarcerated both at Blackgate and in Arkham. He shows none of the typical behaviors of serial killers, no cruelty, rage, sadism, or sexual attacks. He just kills them, typically as quickly and efficiently as possible. No one is sure why he does it.

Trista waited outside Dr. Adams' office until she heard a call for her to enter. She spotted Hilleman and winked at him before shutting the door behind her. She decided to forgo the small talk and get straight to the point.

"I'd like to interview Victor Zasaz."

Dr. Adams seemed unsure what she'd heard and simply stood staring at Trista for a moment. She shook her head and gave Trista a disapproving look.

"That's out of the question, Ms. Martin. Victor Zasaz just killed a man, in cold blood, while restrained and under sedation. Even trained staff members have to be under strict security measures in the best of circumstances. There is no way a civilian is going to be allowed within twenty feet of Victor Zasaz."

Trista expected this and confidently held Adams' gaze. "I'll sign any waver you want and you can chain him to the wall if you have to." Adams rolled her eyes, exasperated.

"You're not getting near Zasaz, no one will be until we can confidently restrain him in a way which will ensure he cannot harm another person."

"If you give me access, I can get him to tell me how he managed to kill a man while restrained."

Adams stopped at this. She stared at Trista, thinking it over furiously. After a tense moment she sighed and looked away toward her desk, filling out a form with the date and time Trista could speak with Zasaz. She went back to her work without another word and Trista took the paper and left.

Jim Gordon glared at Trista disapprovingly over his cluttered desk. She had hoped to avoid this little talk with him but the officer she'd gone to had squealed when she told him who she was researching and now she'd have to answer to Gordon.

"I can't believe Ruth is allowing this." He said with a skeptical shake of the head. Trista sat politely and only rolled her eyes in her mind.

"Dr. Adams trusts her security and my professionalism. Not only that but I have agreed to find out how Zasaz was able to get around their security measures recently."

"That's just my point." Gordon said with a grunt. "Zasaz was able to kill a man despite their security. What makes you so sure he won't do the same to you?"

"We all have to take risks in our lives to get what we want. I want to understand him. I have to talk to him to do that. You didn't seem this upset when I was going to talk with Killer Croc not long ago." Trista arched a brow at Gordon in challenge and Gordon returned it.

"Croc is just an animal. Zasaz is a monster. Did you know he killed two court appointed defense lawyers when he was on trial? They had to find one who could work with him long distance and even he was too terrified to be in the same court room as him. The judge threw him into Arkham just to keep him from hurting anyone else before he could be properly sentenced. He has continued to kill during his incarceration, even with the security becoming more and more strict after each death. He is one of the most dangerous men I've ever met. Men like him don't need to be studied, they need to be forgotten."

"That's a very primitive outlook." Trista said coolly. Gordon shrugged helplessly.

"I'm not saying we shouldn't try to understand killers and psychopaths, if only to help us catch them. I'm saying this man is not like most killers and psychopaths. He's an anomaly; a dangerous anomaly."

"All the more reason to study him." Gordon looked at her closely, seeing that she wasn't anywhere near backing down. At last he sighed and shook his head in a fatherly gesture.

"I can't stop you. Maybe after you meet him you'll understand. I just hope it won't be too late by then." He turned in his chair and looked out at the city. "Good luck, Ms. Martin."

The police files showed no surviving relatives but a woman named Doris Hatch was listed as the Godmother to Victor and had lived next door to the family since they'd purchased the house. Trista stepped out of the cab in front of an old country home with a wraparound porch and a long wooden ramp leading to a bright red door with a round top. She looked across the yard to the childhood home of Victor Zasaz which sat empty and silent like a corpse. It wasn't dilapidated, clearly someone was maintaining it in the absence of the Zasaz family, yet knowing the monster it produced gave it a vaguely threatening hollowness, like an empty bear cave. The doorbell on Mrs. Hatch's house was an antique pull handle which turned a small hammer inside, ringing an old bell not unlike a fire alarm. A shape moved in the dark of the house and a wrinkled but soft, old face came into view behind the door, smiling gently with a mix of curiosity and caution.

They sat in a pleasant little sitting room with the sound of an old clock ticking silently on the mantle and the woody smell of antiques and dust. Trista half-expected her to offer tea and biscuits.

"Victor was a lovely young boy. He would come over to play in my yard or to listen to my radio with me. He was always polite and calm." She spoke slowly but her voice was clear and young.

"What about his parents?"

"Babs and Joe? Oh, they were lovely people, God rest their souls. Joe worked for an insurance company if I remember correctly and Babs was into real estate. They both worked and little Victor would come over after school so I could watch him until they got home."

"What happened to them?"

She looked troubled as she looked up at the ceiling to remember.

"Terrible thing, what happened. Car accident. A truck driver fell asleep at the wheel and drifted into their lane. At least they didn't suffer. Poor Victor really loved them. He took it pretty hard."

"Was Victor ever in any trouble?"

"No, he was a sweet kid. He never had problems at school or home. If anything I thought it strange that he didn't get into any trouble. Every kid gets detention once in a while or pulls a prank, but not Victor. Not so much as a bad grade. He was the perfect kid." She turns to look out the window at the house next door with a kind of sad smile.

"I sometimes wondered if he were really happy."

Officer Purcell was head of security at the county jail just outside of Gotham where prisoners are held during their trial. He has a long scar running from his ear to the tip of his chin and it was wrinkled and pale with age. He pulled a filing box out from under his desk and set it down roughly, producing a metallic jingle from within. He began taking strange looking implements from out of the box and setting them down in a line on the desk between them. They looked like crude tools crafted from various materials. Trista noted what looked like dried blood on several of them.

"These are weapons created by Mr. Zasaz while he was incarcerated here awaiting trial." He picked up a plastic tooth brush which appeared to have been sanded down to a point at one end.

"This one ended up in the femoral artery of one of his defense councilors." He motioned to what looked like a snarl of wire twisted and shaped into a dagger.

"He pulled the springs out of his mattress to make it so we took his bed away. This one," He motioned to a thick braided rope that appeared to be made from fabric torn into strips.

"He used to strangle a guard sent to check on him after he complained of stomach cramps. After that, no less than three guards were present any time anyone entered his cell. We took his blankets and sheets, his mattress, anything we could imagine him making a weapon out of but every time we'd find something new. He sliced open the trachea of another defense attorney by letting his fingernails grow out and sharpening them to points against the concrete. This…" He held up what looked like a strange spike made of plaster.

"The son of a bitch made this out of toilet paper and spit, packed it together like papier-mâché until he stuck it through the eye socket of another prisoner who'd passed too close to his cell."

Purcell sat back at looked at the array of improvised weapons before him in disbelief. "Of course he never needed any of these to kill anyone. He hit one guy right in his pneumogastric nerve located near the jugular. He dropped like a stone. Another took an elbow to the temple, that's on the side of the forehead. One of the shrinks tried to talk to him and he head-butt the poor bastard right on the philtrum, which is the space between the nose and the upper lip, hard enough to jam bone shards into the guy's brain. One guard took a kick to the base of the cerebellum, he's still in a coma. During a struggle to get him out of his cell he smacked a cop on the ears using cupped hands to burst his eardrums. He doesn't fight to hurt, he just fights to kill." Purcell looked pained, as though he were facing a problem with no apparent solution and shook his head.

"I've dealt with all kinds of scum here. Hot heads who start fights at the drop of a hat, freaks who fling bodily fluids at people for sick thrills, hitmen and serial killers who find ways to hurt people in new and creative ways every day. Zasaz was a whole new level of fucked up. He didn't kill for fun or for reputation like these other animals do. He never got angry. You get to see a lot of different types of hate in this job. Guys in here give and take hate all day and night and it burns hot, striking sparks anywhere. Zasaz had cold hate, quiet hate. He was on a mission, from who I don't want to know. He never laughed or raised his voice to anyone. Never so much as smiled. That scared the hell out of me."

The security went through her belongings for what seemed like the tenth time, all while Dr. Adams went over the security check list.

"These are the security restrictions you are to follow at all times. You will not approach the cell door. You will stay behind the yellow line at all times. You will not hand anything to him nor will you take anything from him. If he requires assistance for any reason, a qualified member of staff will be there to handle it. If for any reason he should become aggressive, the session will end. If for any reason any part of his body should come loose from his bindings, you will be escorted out of harm's way by security. Do you understand these security measures?"

Trista nodded automatically and Dr. Adams gave her one last uncertain glare before motioning for the guards to take her to see Zasaz.

The room was no larger than a broom closet with a clear plexiglass door which had a row of circles cut out of it no larger than a fist about waist high. Zasaz was bound with straps and belts into a strangely medieval looking cage. His eyes were slate grey and watched Trista approach and sit in the provided chair behind the yellow line. Though the straps held his head and neck in place he had no trouble speaking. Trista could see several of his tallies scared into his forehead and cheeks.

"I don't believe we've met." He said in a flat monotone that had the metallic quality of someone who hasn't spoken in a long time.

"I don't often get the chance to meet new people without killing them."

Trista simply smiled and set up her recorder.

"My name is Trista Martin and I'm a journalist. I wanted to talk with you about the people you've killed."

"What about them? You want to know what I think of them? What I call them? Why I chose them or why I killed them?" Zasaz made no expression at all. He was blank. Trista felt like she was alone in the room and she was speaking with a bored voice on an intercom.

"Why don't I answer those questions for you? You just tell me if I miss the mark." He looked back down at her with no interest and Trista grinned.

"You choose your victims at random. To you they aren't special for who they are or what they mean to you. You choose them out of convenience but not because you are an opportunist looking for an easy kill. You kill without motive or preference, seemingly for no other reason than to kill." Zasaz never took his eyes off her as she spoke, not even to blink. He took a breath and said,

"You imagine the lock before the key. You think there is some purpose to my actions because you think there is a purpose for everything. You've never even considered that purpose is a myth created by desperate animals to hide from the truth." Trista considered him a moment. He continued to look through her as though she weren't there in a way that Trista found unnerving.

"If you could accept that there is no reason for anything to die, you could accept that there is also no reason for anything to live. If you understood this, as I have come to understand it, you would release me right now and allow me to end your pointless existance." The silence between them felt thick and Trista found herself wondering if this was how he lured his victims.

"You believe I would kill myself out of nihilism? If that's true, why haven't you killed yourself?"

"Because there would be no point to that either. Suicide is just another pathetic attempt to control something which has no control. Besides, tis better to give than to receive yes?"

Trista studied him closely. His face was drawn and pale from captivity, his hair was cropped to his scalp and his expression was as blank as a stone; yet his eyes were not empty, nor were they excited with any kind of anticipation or desire. He would kill her the instant he was able, but not out of anger or excitement or fear. He would do it out of mercy. He would kill her because it would be best for her.

"Tell me how you choose kill, who made you who you are, what changed you, when you first killed. I know you were a normal person once, what changed you?"

Zasaz took a deep breath as though preparing to say something he didn't care to say but was getting dragged out of him anyway.

"I can tell you what you want to hear but not what you don't want to know."


	12. Chapter 12: The Mark

The Mark

To kill another person is considered the ultimate crime against life. It has been universally outlawed and condemned by every society and religion in history. Those who take life are feared or despised, unless they have the blessing of a government or deity, of course. Unless, as the ex-Nazis claimed after the war, they were just following orders. Then the responsibility is passed up to a higher power and your opinion of that power determines your opinion of the murder. Many killers throughout history have utilized this tactic, claiming they were under the orders of God or a demon. I do not claim such a foolish notion. I am under no orders and am not compelled by any outside force or authority. Then why do I kill, you may ask? Do I receive some sexual thrill, a burst of power? Am I getting revenge for some wrong I believe justifies my actions? The answer is no. I am not compelled by lust or wrath to commit murder, neither am I compelled by pride or envy. I do not believe myself to be above or separate from the common man and I do not believe myself to be beneath them; that I must dominate them because I believe I am owed something by society or humanity. I do not kill out of greed, as money means nothing to me and I receive nothing of physical value from it. I do not kill out of gluttony, out of some compulsive need to collect and "keep" my victims. I do not kill out of sloth, out of convenience or as a way of avoiding some reality or eventuality. Again the question posed to me, why do I kill? Before you can understand the "why", you must first understand the "how", the "who", the "what", and the "where".

Murder is a commitment, something irrevokable. If you paint one picture, you are not considered a painter from then on. If you plant one seed, you are not considered a garndener. But one murder labels you a murderer forever. If one accepts this commitment, it is necessary to study and practice this art. Death occurs in the brain. When the brain cannot communicate with the body, the organs shut down and atrophy begins. Depriving the brain of oxygen results in cell death within 3-7 minutes. The most efficient way to kill a human being is to sever the spinal column just below the skull. This results in instantaneous loss of bodily functions such as heart beat and breathing. Exsanguination, or bleeding out, is another way to initiate brain death. This must be executed by severing one of the large arteries or veins found in the human body. The closer to the heart this opening is made, the faster exsanguination takes place. The largest vessels in the body can be found in the neck, the thighs, and around the heart. The average adult has about 5 liters of blood in their system but will go into shock after losing only 1 liter, causing dizziness, pale complexion, and anxiety. After losing 1/3 of the blood in their body, the typical adult begins experiencing cardiac arrhythmia due to the drop in blood pressure. If executed properly, brain death should occur in 10-30 seconds depending on the size and physical health of the person. One thing I've learned is that an artery, when severed, depending on the size and pressure of the blood, can sometimes spasm and close itself temporarily, extending the life expectancy of the person. A stab to the heart, while seeming to be a sure thing, is actually more likely to cause adrenal overload, giving the person a burst of energy to either retaliate or escape, as well as a tightening of the muscle walls, closing the wound temporarily. The number os ways a human life can be extingished is truly infinite. With so many ways to be killed, it is unusual anyone lives at all. These are things I have learned by trial and error and by extensive study of the human anatomy. I take the slaughter of people as a serious practice, much like a butcher or a soldier or an artist. I have dedicated my life to the practice of ending life, so the "how" is something I take very seriously.

As difficult as it may be to accept, my childhood was a happy one. My parents were fine people and I was not molested or abused by anyone in my life. I did not set fires, torture small animals, or have a problem with bed wetting as a child. I grew up as anyone does. I graduated high school, went to college, got a job with a respectable company, and owned a nice car, a decent apartment, and a classy wardrobe. But, like anyone else, I was unhappy with my life. I felt as though I was working endlessly for a purpose that wasn't my own, for the benefit of people I didn't really know. I tried to fill my life with things, furniture, entertainment, and hobbies; but nothing seemed to matter. I did everything I was supposed to do. I purchased items from my consumer age demographic, I saved money and invested in the stock market, I paid my taxes and cleaned my apartment, and I watched the TV shows and movies I was expected to watch. I worked 9 to 5 all week, drank alcohol while watching professional sports all weekend, and maintained my personal hygiene. I did everything society tells us we need to do in order to be happy, but I wasn't.

As a child I remember watching commercials for toys and getting so excited; knowing that getting that toy would change everything if I had it. Until I got it. It would be fun for a day or so, then I would lose interest and it would end up in a closet. What seemed like something which would fulfill your every need in those advertisements, always turned out to just be stuff in the end. The promise of it never matched the reality and as I got older and fell for the trick again and again, I realized I had been promised something that didn't exist and I began to have the same doubts about every promise my parents or society had made me. The careers children dream of have the same shining perfection those toy commercials had, a glittering generality that showed none of the work and pure luck it took to achieve and maintain those careers. Music promised us that love was some overwhelming, all consuming euphoria which had no equal; something which, when experienced, would make every other need in life diminish. Movies and TV promised us that life was dramatic and exciting; that honesty and goodness always won over selfishness and evil, that no matter how bad things got everything worked itself out in the end. All of these bright and shining promises fill our world, pulling us in every direction. They claim to entertain us or offer goods and services while they drive us crazy with lust and expectation. Promises created by the indifferent, sold by the immoral to the utterly overwhelmed.

After you grow up, money becomes the all-consuming promise. Money provides stimulation to the lustful, control to the wrathful, value to the greedy, security to the gluttonous, status to the proud, confidence to the envious, and excuses to the slothful. Money solves small problems by creating big problems. My parents had money, though they never considered themselves among "the rich". The promise of "the rich" was another glittering dream society loves to dangle in front of you. People turn on each other for it, step on each other for it, spend their lives climbing toward it, yet it always remains just beyond you. Always on the other side of the fence, one house over. My parents would have been considered rich by most people, but they only considered other people rich. They had nice things, but never enjoyed them. Their house had to be maintained and unblemished or the market value would drop. Growing up, we each stayed in our own corners, leaving the rest of the space untouched. My parents both owned nice cars but never drove, since each use would drive the odometer up and the value down. Everything they'd worked so hard to acquire had to remain behind protective glass, untouched and unloved. Love, I had learned, was about ownership and maintaining one's property value. A man does this by maintaining his financial value. A woman does this by maintaining her aesthetic value.

So then what drove me to kill? My parents, for reasons I can't imagine, had decided to throw caution to the wind and actually went out for a drive in one of their cars. It was during this unusual drive they were struck and killed by a semi-truck whose driver had fallen asleep at the wheel. With both of my parents gone, I stood to inherit their massive fortune. I found myself thrust into the fabled realm of "the rich". It felt like a surreal dream with the pain of my parent's death juxtaposed with sudden wealth and attention. I found myself with everything society promised I wanted; free time, attention, friends, lovers, and most importantly money. Everyone treated me differently. Family and friends seemed to appear from nowhere, wanting to offer condolences and be a part of my life. Women who had ignored me now fawned over me and performed any depraved act of pleasure I could want. People did favors for me, gave me advice, had time for me, listened to me, and like a child watching a television commercial, I thought it was genuine. I never suspected there was a secret sales pitch hidden inside every one, like a hook hidden within a worm. Once their promises were accepted, the façade would drop and I would have to escape the hook or be pulled in by it. The "friends" would casually drop hints at financial troubles or an idea for a business. The "lovers" would begin to ask about commitments and tell stories about the lavish gifts of previous lovers. With every "gift" and "favor" they offered me, they were secretly paying for a future gift or favor from me. The phone calls from businesses and companies never ceased. Offers of opportunity and special deals, of free gifts and vacations. I was surrounded by it, through the mail, on the phone, knocking at the door. It was as though some rancid pheromone had covered me and now attracted endless swarms of opportunists. The worst of it all had been the knowledge that I hadn't earned this money and had no more right to it than they did, a point which they didn't hesitate to bring up.

I became reclusive. I began spending just to be rid of the money. I had become buried in valuables. Like my parents, I bought cars I never drove, added rooms to the family home I never entered, TVs and entertainment systems left to sit in their packaging or set up, unplugged and dead, like a trophy on a shelf for an achievement I never earned. I hated money when I didn't have enough, but now having more than enough made me hate it even more. I felt the pointlessness of all our pursuits and sufferings on a deeper level then. Having enough money made me realize it was only colored paper or numbers in a system, something so small and meaningless was what made people betray their principles and grind each other into dust. Inspiration came with a special offer from a casino in town. Here was a chance to throw it all away, not for a useless trinket but for the chance to win. As much as I hated money, I still somehow believed more money might actually make things better. With nothing to lose and everything to gain, I entered the house of gambling.

Once inside I was treated as a king returning to his kingdom. I knew the routine by this point but my desperation made me weak and I believed it again. I gambled. I lost money and made money, got free drinks and food, I had a crowd cheering me on. I felt alive again for the first time since my parents died. I was being built up and placed on a pedestal and like a fool I didn't see the foundation sat upon a pillar as thin as a pencil. I climbed it willingly, never looking down, until it started to fall. The losses grew and the winnings shrank and I clung desperately to the hope that I could get it all back. Nothing existed but the cards, the dice, and the money. My wagers became higher, hoping to win back a larger portion, but in the end only lost more. I felt numb as I sat at the table, staring at the empty space where my chips had been. I had lost everything, worse than everything, I was in debt. I didn't even feel it when the men grabbed me and hauled me to the curb, a king dethroned and discarded. Like a tube of paste, they squeezed me dry and tossed away what remained. I walked in a daze, lost inside myself. All promises broken, all hope lost. Everything I could ever love would either discard me or be taken away. Anything I might create or build would eventually become worthless. No matter how I tried to distract myself with entertainment or relationships or careers, everything would come back to zero. I saw the world as it was, a spinning ball in the dark, covered in moss and within that moss lived cities and countries of mites and parasites who believed they understood life and why they existed. They could only keep piling misery upon misery, collect paper scraps and call it wealth, procreate and call it love, poison themselves and call it indulgence, cannibalize each other and call it progress, collecting and piling stuff and never having enough. No matter how much they steal, rape, and kill, they'll always have to get up and do it again the next day. Life wasn't a downward spiral; it was an endless recurrence of misery and distraction.

I was standing on the railing of a bridge when I came back out of myself. Standing on the edge of oblivion. It was so dark, the river below was just a black, starless strip of emptiness. One step and I'd be gone. One step away from being just an object, one more piece of litter on the river bank. One step and I'd never have to go to work again. One step and I'd never have to smile, or talk on the phone or keep in touch with anyone again. One step and I'd never have to do my taxes, or clean my house, or pretend I was anything anymore. Something deep inside hoped a hand would reach out and stop me. A cop maybe, or just a Samaritan. Someone to pull me back and say, "Don't do it. You have everything to live for. Things aren't as bad as you think. We're all scared too. Please, come back." Then a hand did touch me. Someone was tapping me, trying to get my attention. I turned and there was a disheveled man looking up at me through a face full of stringy beard and eyes that were red and sunken. He was asking me to give him my wallet, before I jumped, would I just give him my wallet and the coat too? Maybe my shoes as well? I only stared at him, stocked by the absurdity of the moment. Then I laughed. I laughed hard and long, so hard it might have been sobs to anyone who heard it. He was getting angry now. He tried to reason with me, said I wouldn't need that stuff when I was dead and he could really use it, come on. I just laughed, tears running down my face, warm and wet. That was when he pulled the knife. The laughter left me and all was silent again. Again I stood at the edge, looking at the knife and into his furious, bleary eyes. That was when I saw it, when I saw myself in him. The desperation, the hopelessness, the endless struggle of his life. In that moment I understood him, and I understood myself. In that moment I loved him, and I loved myself. In that moment I freed him, and I freed myself. I grabbed the knife from his hand and pushed it into his throat. The blood was warm on my hand and his eyes went wide and alert. I grabbed him, pulling him into a hug, and I held him as he shuddered and choked, I held him until he went still, until he was gone.

I had crossed a threshold that night. I had come to that place to end my own life and be free but instead I gave that end and that freedom to another. It truly is better to give than to receive. I had taken away this man's pain, his struggle. I never believed in a life beyond death, but non-existence was better than a pointless existence. This, I discovered, could be my purpose. I could be an agent of freedom, granting people an end to their suffering and toil. I felt more alive than ever before. I was alive, and I had a reason to exist. I took the man's knife and I cut the first mark into my arm. The first life. The first of many. A record of my deeds. After that night I began my studies. I went to slaughter houses and watched them work. I attended medical classes and dissections. I visited mortuaries and autopsies. I learned everything I could about the human anatomy and its weaknesses. For the first time I began training my body. I stopped poisoning myself with sugars, fats, and chemicals. I studied the martial arts and learned killing techniques and proper killing form. Murder has always been unacceptable throughout history and yet there is a wealth of studies and information on its proper execution stretching back for millennia. As I studied, I also began killing.

I found I do not have a preference as to who I kill. Race, sex, age, class, religion, these things don't concern me. I do avoid killing children, not because I have any sympathy for them, you understand, I simply don't believe they can appreciate the gift I am giving them. Children are still innocent and unaware of life's pointless crawl so they would not appreciate being free of it. Why not kill the homeless or prostitutes as so many other killers have? Those killers were merely opportunists targeting society's cast off refuse. In my eyes, these despots are the same human waste as any productive and healthy member of society. The rich struggle with the pointless march of existence just as the poor do. We are all equal in the futility of our reality. I've come to people in their homes, found them in the streets, waited for them in their cars. I find them in hospitals, outside their support groups, and underneath bridges. I've killed policemen and criminals, the beautiful and the hideous, the kind and the vicious, the holy and the impure. For each one, a mark, a tally. My body keeps count of my progress. My only worry is how to continue when I no longer have space to keep my record.

Now you ask, why? Why do I kill? Why have I dedicated myself to taking the lives of others? Don't I realize every life is sacred and special? To you I ask, what is the purpose of life? I believe the purpose of life is to end. I have been incarcerated, yet my work continues. So long as there is human life within my grasp I will snuff it out. They chain me down and lock me in boxes, trying to drain my strength and resolve. I've learned isometric exercises and meditation techniques to maintain my body and mind. And every time they open the box expecting to find a broken man they find instead a coiled snake, waiting to strike. They believe I am insane, that I may be cured. They believe my killing others is cruel but their "cure" is to make me return to the endless cycle of distraction and despair they themselves are trapped in. A fate worse than death, as they say. No. The only cure for me is the cure I offer to you; death. That day will come and I admit I will feel regret, but not for the lives I've taken, rather for the lives I wouldn't have the opportunity to end. The question then isn't "why do I kill?" The question is, why not let me kill? Why not let me kill you?


	13. Chapter 13: Poison Ivy

Chapter 7 - Poison Ivy

1

After he had finished his story, Trista had almost forgotten about her promise to Adams. When she asked him he didn't hesitate at all. Like he would have told anyone who had asked him. Like it didn't even matter. When they restrain him, the first thing they do is inject enough tranquilizers to bring down a bull, after that they start the prosess of releasing him from his restraints. When they went to give him the shot, after they found the vein but before they injected it, he actually moved the vein in his arm, allowing the sedative to be absorbed more slowly in the muscle. When they unstrapped his arm, he was only half sedated and was able to crush the poor man's throat. He told Trista all of this with the emptiness of a person reading stereo instructions.

As Trista walked out of Arkham, the sky over Gotham was dark with clouds and smog. The unseasonable cold that seemed ever present in Gotham burned her cheeks and seemed to cut through her jacket like a silk nightshirt. She had relayed the information Zasaz had given her to Adams and Trista had expected disbelief or at least confusion. But the only thing she could read in the woman's face was a weary exasperation, like an overburdened mother getting yet another horror story from a teacher. For the first time Trista could see that Adams hated these men, though she might never say it to anyone, even herself. Trista began to feel empathy softening the edges of her dislike for the old bitch. She felt inexplicably drained after talking with Adams. Everything seemed to drop 10 degrees and lose some of its natural hue after spending so long with Zasaz and then seeing an oddly vulnerable Dr. Adams. She needed a hot coffee and a good conversation. Trista went back inside to see if Hilleman was around but he wasn't in his office and she gave up, leaving the asylum alone.

She settled for the hotel lobby coffee and her case files. As the coffee warmed her and the TV news spoke with the painting across the room. Trista had been halfway through an article she was quickly losing interest in when the name Poison Ivy was said by a news caster on the TV. She moved to the side to watch. They were reporting on an increase in serious accidental poisonings, mostly children and pets. They showed a photo of a plant that looked to Trista like oleander and they warned viewers to keep a look out for this strain of plant. They went on to say the species was identified as one of the unique specimens seized from the labs of Ivy Woods, better known as Poison Ivy. Anyone who spots one of these plants is urged to contact poison control immediately. she withdrew her case file on Ivy Woods. She hadn't been all that interested in her. She had almost omitted her from the list she had given Adams before. Looking at the mugshot she began to feel warmer. She was around Trista's age with fiery red hair cut short in a boyish pixie style. Pixie was the best way to describe her looks, there seemed to be some bright energy in her eyes which were slightly slanted but round and bright green. Her lips were the envy of any cover girl, dick sucking lips her mother would have called them, and she had a grin that seemed both childish, and devilishly menacing. Looking into her file she saw Ivy's crimes had been deemed eco-terrorism. Spreading invasive plants into corporate crops, tampering with insecticides, spreading harmful and poisonous plants into public parks and national forests, as well as developing biological weapons and dangerous fungus. Her background was scant but they listed her as having been born and raised in the Heros Karabazios cult that was raided 20 or so years ago. After the raid she disappeared into the foster system like most of the kids. She didn't turn up again in Gotham until she was 19 and had no arrests or investigations until recently. Trista wrote down the name of the cult and a list of any living relatives, as well as the names of any victims of her crimes. There was a former guard at Arkham who attempted suicide, but he was a patient at Arkham now and Adams would never let her near a regular patient. One of the men listed as a witness in the case was another guard who worked with Ivy at the same time, Blake Fincher. She found the name and number of a botanist at Gotham University who was head of the department who received many of the specimens seized from Ivy's lab. Trista supposed it was best to start from the present and work backwards toward her past.

2

The greenhouse and lab Ivy had built on her late husband's land has been seized and quarantined after her capture. Most of the plants and specimens were destroyed but several had been taken by the university of Gotham for study. Trista walked into the botanical labs of the university and was met by Professor James Bateman, who was the head of the botanical studies at the university. He was a bit older than Trista, lanky, balding, with horn rimed glasses and a beard.  
"You must be Trista Martin." He said extending his hand.  
"Must I?" Trista said jokingly and they shook hands and started through the garden area.  
"The specimens we seized from Ivy's lab were in excellent health and condition. Many of them were difficult to cultivate and transfer. We had to add a whole wing to our labs here to accommodate them." He pointed to a row of lush green plants as a timed mister turned on and began watering.  
"Some of them we were unable to maintain here because they required equipment and habitats we were unable to duplicate. I wish I had gotten a chance to see her lab before it was quarantined. It must have been amazing." Trista lightly touched a cluster of pale white flowers and said,  
"You sound like you admire her." Bateman grinned.  
"Only as a fellow botanist. Ah, that's one of the specimens we got from her labs. Conium Maculatum." Trista looked closer, studying the leaves and stems.  
"Hemlock." She said, plucking a leaf and holding it up to study it.  
"We found most of the specimens from Ivy's lab to be quite poisonous. Hemlock contains coniine, a powerful neurotoxin that disrupts the neuromuscular functions, causing ascending paralysis. It was used to execute prisoners in ancient Greece. The specimens we retrieved from Ivy's lab contain 3 times the normal levels of coniine and grow at a much faster rate. Ingesting 3 to 4 leaves of this specimen would kill a healthy adult." Trista pocketed the leaf and went over to a small tree covered in bright pink flowers.  
"Nerium Oleander, correct?"  
"We're thinking of renaming this genus Ivium Oleander. It normally requires one to ingest quite a bit before the effects of the cardiac glycosides can be felt. This genus however contains a more powerful strain of the toxin and its leaves are not as bitter. If you were to ingest the leaves of this plant you would suffer irregular heartbeats and severe abdominal problems until full cardiac arrest." Trista looked at the beautiful tree, unable to believe it could be so deadly.  
"Was she genetically modifying these plants? Trying to make more deadly poisons?" Bateman shook his head, looking at the flower of the oleander carefully.  
"There are plenty of poisons in the world. It looked to me, and this is just in my opinion, that she wanted to make more poisonous plants. Maybe it was to develop better poisons or maybe just to change the way those poisons are made or transported. I don't know. But if you look at this specimen." He walks over to a spiky reddish plant with thorny seed pods at the top. The plant was behind a protective plastic sheet.  
"This is what appears to be a Ricinus Communis, a Castor Oil plant. 4 to 8 seeds of a typical Ricinus contain enough ricin to kill a man. This breed was recovered from her labs and contains just as much ricin, but it excretes the oil through the leaves, like poison ivy. That means simply touching one of these without protection can deliver ricin through the skin, killing you within a few hours." Trista stared at the plant, astonished.  
"Jesus."  
"The only reason for such a plant to be made is if you wanted to kill someone at random. Anyone who came into contact with it would become terminally ill. I imagine her motives were not unlike the Tylenol poisonings. Random. Or maybe more than that, take a look at this." He lead her over to an enclosed glass case, like an exhibit at a zoo. Inside was what seemed like an apple tree. The apples were bright red and covered the ground around the roots of the tree.  
"This is a new speciese of plant recovered from her labs. At first glance it appears to be a mackintosh apple tree. It is actually a hybrid of a common apple tree and the Hippomane Macinella. The sap of the manchineel tree contains phorbol, which causes violent allergic reactions when exposed to the skin. The manchineel was used by the natives of Mexico and south America to torture captured enemies by tying them to the base during a rain storm. Even the water from the leaves was enough to cause severe burns. The apples of the tree contain physostignmine, a toxin that caused severe internal bleeding and pain before death. This is a manchineel tree which has been bred to look like an ordinary apple tree." Trista looked at bright red apples and shook her head.  
"But why?" Bateman looked at the tree with a frown.  
"I have no idea. This is beyond me. There are others, of course. We recovered supplies from her lab for genetic modification, though they seemed relatively new, thank god. I can't imagine the things she might have been capable of breeding with that technology. If the seeds of this tree or any of the others we recovered were to spread into the wild, it could cause countless deaths and injuries, no only to people but the natural environment. If she hadn't been stopped and her specimens either destroyed or contained, there is o telling the damage she could have caused. The things we have here aren't even the worst of them. The really bad stuff was seized by the government. God knows what they will do with them. The things Ivy was making, they scare the hell out of me." Trista looked at the silent green of the leaves, the quiet threat they contained.  
"Do we know if she had spread them? If any made it into the wild? How would we know?" Bateman shook his head and looked down.  
"We wouldn't know until people started dying. She could have been spreading them around here, shipping them to other countries as misidentified seeds, mixing them in with crops or seed depositories. She had years to do this. All we can do is figure out how to identify and counter them, and hope its not already too late."

3

Blake Fincher lived in a run down apartment complex on the north side of the Bowery. He had been an orderly at Arkham for years until he quit a year ago. They were sitting on the small patio attached to his apartment, about 3 stories up, the balcony above them dripped sedately from the morning's rain. He offered her a beer which Trista declined. She had never understood the appeal of beer. It tasted like fermented piss and wouldn't give you a good buzz until you'd choked down half a dozen. He lit a smoke and looked Trista over appreciatively. Blake looked like the bumbling dad from a cheesy sitcom, slightly overweight, balding, just enough smarts to know he wasn't all that smart.  
"I haven't been to Arkham in over a year, I dunno what ya think I can tell ya." Trista sat back in her flimsy plastic patio chair, faded and gritty from exposure to the elements.  
"You worked as an orderly there, you had experience with some of the super criminals there. I'm just gathering references about Poison Ivy now, did you have an interactions with her?" Blake took a swig and wiped his mouth.  
"I aint never touched her, alright. Not me." Trista turned on the recorder casually.  
"So some of the other guards did?" Blake looked at the red eye of the recorder watching him and shifted nervously.  
"Yeah, sure. Some of them did. Could you blame em? Most of em got busted or quit, you know. But I aint never touched her." Trista watched him finish off his cigarette and flick it into the alley below.  
"Anybody who did her, they all changed." Trista sat up a bit.  
"Changed?" She leaned forward in her chair.  
"Yeah, like, I don't know. Its like when someone starts doin smack and they change. They don't say nothin, but you can tell." Blake seemed to realize Trista wasn't following him so far and he fumbled with another cigarette while he figured out how to explain.

"So there was this guy who used to work with us at Arkham. Rick Morris. He was one a those tough guy macho types. Picks fights in bars, rips on you for bein a sissy, a real asshole. He was rough with the patients and I seen him go into the women's ward at night a few times. Nobody never said nothing because we knew he'd beat the shit out of us if we did but mostly because when you work in a place like that, you need someone like him watching your back. Most of the crazies in there are harmless but I seen one go into a fit and throw a guy twice his size out a window. Then there's the other ones, Croc and Joker and Zasaz, those types. I wouldn't even go into their area without Rick or one of the other big guys with me. So we put up with his bullshit and looked the other way when he went to break himself off a piece, as he called it. So when they bring in Ivy we all saw her and our jaws just about hit the floor. She looked even better in person somehow. We all wanted her on our rounds that night but Rick claimed her and no one fought it. After that he was all smiles, told us it was the best lay he'd ever had. He looked like a teenager who'd just gotten laid for the first time. After that we all wanted a taste and most of them got one, but Rick got the most. He would go on and on about it. What she did to him, what she let him do to her, how tight she was, all that. He was goin to her every other night, then it was every night, then it was twice a day. We all knew if he kept it up he'd get us all caught but he wouldn't listen. That was when I started noticing the changes in him. He wasn't joking around with us or bragging anymore. He looked like he hadn't been sleeping much and he'd go off on us for no reason. I could tell he'd lost weight. He looked drained. Like she was sucking the life out of him. The others changed too.  
One of the guys, Pete Townsend, used to be a quiet loner, we used to rip on him because he'd only ever had sex with his wife. After he went with her he said he'd never wanted sex more in his life. His wife had started to cut him off and he'd have to masturbate two or three times a day just to satisfy himself. He got mean, started bullshitting us the way Rick used to. Told us he'd started going down to the red light district because his wife wouldn't do it for him anymore. Last I heard his wife left him and took the kids and he'd gotten thrown in jail or raping a teenager on a subway car. One of the other guys, Wicks Sullivan, he just stopped coming to work afterward. Last I'd heard he'd left town, even though his ex and the kids were still here and he never got it the worst though. He looked like a junkie, clothes loose and dirty, eyes sunken, hair falling out. When he was inevitably caught, Adams called us all into her office and gave us the third degree. We all got a weeks suspension since she couldn't prove we'd done anything, but Rick got the boot right then and he threw himself on the floor, crawling over to Adams' feet. We all stared at him like it was a prank or maybe it wasn't Rick at all. His back arched up and down as he sobbed. It was the ugliest sound I'd ever heard. He begged her on his knees, saying how his wife left him because he couldn't get it up anymore. That just about floored us. He was always going on about that, how he gave it to his woman every night like clockwork and how he jacked off twice a day every day since he was 15. He said she was the only way he could get it off anymore, she was the only one. Snot was running down his cheeks and Adams looked like she was ready to beat him back with her clipboard or turn and run. She screamed at him to get out and we all flinched at that but Rick just crawled over to her feet and rested his head on the tips of her shoes as she backed into the bookcase to get away. She screamed for one of us to get him away from her and when no one else made a move I stepped forward. He was still shaking with sobs on the floor and I could see the trail of snot and tears he'd left behind him like a slug. He must have heard me coming because he wheeled around, flinging a glob of snot that hit the desk side trash can with a soft thunk. When I saw his eyes I knew he was crazy. He jumped up like someone had hit him with a Taser and he whirled around, looking from one person to the other. We all stood like ranch hands in a pen with a wild bronco, hands out and shifting with his movements. I saw something like a light burning out behind his eyes then and he stopped, hands at his side. He went for something in his pocket and my first thought was gun so I jumped at him. He pulled out a pill bottle and had dumped about half the bottle down his throat when I hit him. It was a muscle relaxer and if Toby hadn't brought out his ipecac, everyone was required to have one in case a patient swallowed something poisonous or tried to OD, and made Rick vomit the rest out all over Dr. Adams' office he would have died before the EMTs would have gotten there."

Blake finished off his beer and tossed the bottle over the side of the patio, it made a faint crash down below and a dog barked somewhere in response.  
"He's a patient there now, still on suicide watch." Trista sat back and looked out at Gotham, grey and black after the rain like the remains of a campfire.  
"Why did you quit?" She asked. He sighed, resignedly.  
"I sometimes wish I hadn't. No other job pays that well and the benefits were excellent. But when I was assigned to her ward one night and I saw her in her cell, naked on her cot and looking right at me, and she told me to come over, I almost did. Even after everything I'd seen, I almost walked right into her and let her use whatever black magic she used on the others to destroy their lives. I came so close. If Adams hadn't assigned a woman to guard Ivy with whatever guy was there, if she hadn't snapped me out of it, I would have. After that I couldn't stay there." He tossed his cigarette over the side and looked out at the city.  
"Looking back I think maybe I could have stayed, maybe I could have even handled it. Maybe I wouldn't go crazy like the others and I could have enjoyed her the way it happened in my fantasies. But all I have to do is think about that thunk sound of Rick's snot hitting Dr. Adams' trashcan as he turned on me with those crazy eyes and know I made the right decision."

4

Finding Willow Blossom was a terrible hassle. After the cult was raided, most of the kids who were under 12 were sent into the foster system, the ones who were old enough to convict were sent to juvenile detention centers or rehab clinics. Willow was 14 when her parents were killed and her little sister, Ivy Belladonna, a.k.a. Poison Ivy, was taken into protective custody. After that Trista tracked her to a rehab clinic in Jersey where she stayed until she was 18. After that she changed her name and disappeared. This was a fairly common path for the children of the Heros Karabazmos Cult to take. A lot of them ended up in prison, the men mostly, the others had been picked up for prostitution or drug trafficking. The one everyone knows about, who had been known as Moon Terra at the time, eventually cashed in on her past and wrote several unreadable memoirs about her experiences and how she found salvation through Jesus. Trista found Blossom because she was the only one, besides Ivy, to take her old name again. Blossom was now working the red light district on the lower side of the Bowery and was something of a celebrity there. Not because she had been in the infamous cult, but because she was the most sought after sex worker in Gotham. Her clients had to book months in advance and she never had to step foot in the street to get a john. She was the envy of all the other girls on the street and the pride and joy of her pimp. Trista booked an appointment with her, getting herself further up the waiting list by giving her press credentials, and had to shell out 2 grand of the magazine's money just to get an hour with her. God alone knew what she charged for a whole evening. Blossom arranged to meet Trista at the hotel bar of the Luxury Inn near the river. It was nicer than Trista's own hotel, more high class. The bar was a classic Gotham city classy joint. Clean art deco design, people in nice suits enjoying martinis in quiet booths. You almost expected to hear a lounge band playing "Night and Day" sedately in the corner. Blossom was wearing a simple black dress with high boots and a black fur jacket, large round sunglasses hid her eyes behind black mirrors like the eyes of a moth. She was thin, pale, and very pretty, her short dark hair having a messy quality that came off as aloof but deliberate. She smiled and looked Trista over approvingly.  
"You sure you're just here to talk?" She said and gave Trista a flirty dark lipped smile.

They ordered drinks and Blossom lit a cigarette while the bartender had his back turned.  
"They don't let people smoke in here anymore but they make an exception for me and my clients, so feel free." Trista declined politely and Blossom took off her large glasses. Here eyes were large and clear, a bright hazel, and there was age in them, maybe a bit too much. They got their drinks and Trista got out her recorder.  
"So is this about Gotham's Sirens or just a piece on the whole prostitute culture here?" Blossom asked with a bored dowager tone. Trista found herself liking the woman already.  
"Actually, its about your sister, Ivy." A look of genuine surprise flashed for a moment, replaced by false boredom.  
"I don't have a sister. Sorry." She took a drink and looked at Trista in the mirror over the bar, studying her.  
"Not officially, no, but you do have one. Several actually. I know who you are, Willow." She seemed ready to deny it again but her face softened and resignation won out with a cold grin.  
"You are good. Lets finish these and go to the room to talk about this in private." Trista agreed and she finished her martini and followed Blossom to the room, a trail of smoke behind her like a thin white tail.

The room was much larger than Trista's. It was divided by glass double doors, the large queen bed and shower on one side, a tasteful sitting room and parlor on the other. The windows went floor to ceiling and showed a spectacular view of the Gotham's night sky. As Blossom drew the shades Trista thought she saw a spot light shining a black shape on the low hanging smog of the Gotham night. They sat in a sunken couch with minibars at either end.  
"So where do you want to start?" Blossom asked, crossing her legs neatly.  
"What do you remember about life on the compound?" She leaned back on the couch and looked at the ceiling with a sigh, collecting her thoughts.  
"Firstly, we didn't call it a compound. We called it a commune. Its hard to remember it without the bias and outrage everyone attributed to it. It was like leaving home and finding yourself in a foreign country where everything you thought was normal was illegal and everyone treated you like a freak. Being raised there and then suddenly thrown into the world with everyone telling me I was wrong and weird and sick in the head. People think the other kids that killed themselves afterward did it because they couldn't take the guilt of what they'd been forced to do, but any of the survivors will tell you it was culture shock. I guess I handled it better than most of us, but I have scars from those days too. I guess you know about Moon and her 'amazing transformation'. That's nature's way. Assimilate or die. Some of the others assimilated, some of them didn't, yet most of them still ended up in jail or rehab." Trista looked at Blossom's arms, searching for needle scars or any signs of self harm.  
"How did Ivy handle it?" Blossom half smiled and shook her head.  
"She never had a problem adapting to anything. She was mommy and daddy's golden girl. A prodigy. They sent her to a foster home because they assumed she wasn't indoctrinated as severely as the older kids, but they were wrong. She knew better than any of us. I feel bad for what ever poor family got stuck with her. I'll bet she did a number on them." Trista raised her eye brows at that. She was still trying to find out where she was sent after the raid. She made a mental note to check into it further.  
"So she took to the teachings of the cult? What were those teachings?" Blossom shrugged.  
"Foraging, medicinal herbs, survivalist skill, rituals and spells, but mostly sex. As soon as we showed any sexual interest we began our training. Most of us started at 6 or 7. Ivy was 4 and she was a natural. We learned how to stimulate ourselves first, then others using fingers, mouths, objects. We learned about sensitive nerve clusters and how to reach them. We practiced on each other, on adults, and ourselves. It was never painful or scary. They treated it like teaching a kid how to ride a bike or catch a ball. It all seemed normal to me, even fun. It was only the people outside who called it monstrous and cruel." Trista studied her but Blossom showed no distress at the memory. "And how do you feel about it?" Blossom looked out the window, watching the city.  
"I had everyone telling me how to feel about it for so long I can't remember how it really was. I guess I don't feel any way about it. I don't think they were abusing us, but I do think they were exploiting us. I lost my virginity at 9 to a hymen hunter, that's what they called clients who only wanted virgins. He was nice to me. I think he was elected governor recently. That was the real reason for all of it, I think." "The money?" Trista asked.  
"I think it was more about getting leverage with the men who ran the world. Mom and Dad were old school anti-establishment in their prime. Sticking it to the man and keeping them away from their life was what it was all about. So they trained their kids to be sex gods, had them service the rich and powerful, gather info and evidence, and finally let the governors and congressmen know they were under new ownership. That's why it took so long for the FBI to come down on them like they did. If the Batman hadn't lead the charge I think we'd still be there."

Trista got out a bottle of white wine and offered some to Blossom. As she filled the glasses Blossom looked Trista over.  
"Why a psychology mag? You want to be a head shrinker some day?" Trista handed her the glass with a smirk.  
"I guess. I just find psychology interesting. People have always frightened me. Understanding how they think is a way to make them seem more real, less intimidating." Blossom nodded.  
"I can see that. I've started looking into it myself recently. Being a whore is like being a priest, therapist, and physical trainer all at once. Learning how to anticipate a client's needs, to know to come on hard or to be timid, it enhances the whole experience for them. You can't imagine how many men just want to be listened to. So many people are just as lost as we are, some hopelessly lost. I try to help with that in some ways because I remember being lost too. Maybe I try too hard. I could just bend over and let em take it like a lot of girls do. The money is just for permission. I guess I can't help it sometimes." Blossom rolled her eyes and took a drink, looking out the window again. Trista couldn't help smiling at her. She had been with girls before in college but it was no more interesting than with boys. She took another drink and put it out of her mind.

"Do you have any kind of relationship with Ivy?"  
"None at all." She said indifferently, looking down at her glass.  
"We've crossed paths in the upper circles of Gotham but she never gave me more than a warning glare. She was a whore of a different game. Everyone plays the silent auction sex game. Girls don't give it up unless a guy gives them enough attention, offerings, and fun. Maybe that's why hookers get such a bad rap. Because we offer a set price with no hidden fees or commitments. Guys look down on us because they don't get the conquest, the thrill of the hunt. Girls hate us because we put a set price on something they think should go to the highest bidder. Ivy was like that. She slept with men, but not for money. With her it was just like with Mom and Dad. Power. She used her skills and knowledge to completely control the highest of the Gotham elite. Even among my circles, the stories about her exploits and influence would make us all green with envy. She got the best of everything and everyone wanted her. She was like a goddess. Gotham's own Aphrodite. I knew what she was doing, how she was controlling these men, and she knew I knew so she made sure I knew to keep away. She terrifies me, even now." They both sat in silence for a moment before Trista asked,  
"Did you know anything about what she did to get put in Arkham? About the bio-terrorism?"  
"To be honest," Blossom said as she shifted her legs up onto the couch and leaning to the side.  
"That whole thing took me by complete surprise. I thought she would be content to stay a goddess in Gotham, using up men and throwing them away until she was too old to play the game anymore. I had no idea what her true intentions were. We learned about plants and poisons from Mom and Dad, but that always seemed to come second to the sex thing. I think that was a creation of her own. Mom and Dad were anti-establishment non-conformists but they weren't terrorists. They sabotaged germ labs and animal testing facilities but they never did anything on the scale Ivy did. Maybe she was just taking our parent's ideology to the next level, sabotaging civilizations and freeing the world from mankind's control. Or maybe she got to the top of our human ladder and looked down to see the squirming bugs we all don't realize we are. Maybe she thought we didn't deserve to be on top anymore and decided to give nature back the advantage it used to have over us."

Trista finished off her wine and looked at the empty glass.  
"Sounds almost like you agree with her." Blossom sighed and looked at Trista with eyes that wouldn't have looked out of place in a woman twice her age.  
"We all have those moments when we root for the villain. When I think about all those people forcing their beliefs on me, telling me I was disgusting and wrong, the men who treated me like garbage and the women who agreed with them. But I know that's just anger and misanthropy. Human beings are evolving and learning. We've come a long way since the dark ages and we've gotten a lot better. It can be hard to see when you're down on the front lines of it, but we're far more enlightened and powerful than at any other time in history. We've got a long way to go, but We've come a long way too. Maybe we expect too much from everyone, but that's part of being human; expecting something better." Trista finished her wine and set the glass on the mini bar. She could hardly believe it but she'd met a real life hooker with a heart of gold. She clicked off the recorder and gathered up her things while Blossom watched with a small smile.  
"I'm sorry if we went over the time limit." Blossom smiled warmly and shook her head.  
"No charge, my dear. Its been a lovely evening." As Trista turned to leave Blossom called from the couch.  
"You sure you don't want to fuck?" Trista considered it a moment.  
"Sure, why not?"

5

Ivy was sent to live with a middle aged married couple named Edward and Sheryl Anderson. They had been unable to conceive and so were next in line of the adoption list. They were not told about Ivy's connection with the cult in the hopes she could be given a fresh start. They were quiet, religious, and by all accounts perfect citizens. They gave Ivy the name Pamela Anderson and fell in love with her at first sight. She was enrolled at the school in the small town of Roosevelt about 10 miles outside of Gotham. Trista was only able to find this out by contacting the adoption agency that took her in after the raid and, after no small amount of effort, found out the town she had been sent to. Roosevelt was a typical New England town , the kind you'd buy postcards of or read about in a Robert Frost poem. Trista tracked the Andersons to a small cottage on the edge of a forest of pines but they had apparently died many years ago. According to the obituaries in the local paper, Edward had taken his own life by hanging himself and then his wife followed a few years later by sleeping pills. When she asked some of the locals about their daughter and what happened to her, they either acted as though the Andersons never had a daughter, or they'd just get quiet and change the subject. It was Father Michaels, the priest of the local catholic church, who had agreed to talk about the Andersons' girl.

"I never believed in evil before I met Pamela." He started, leaning forward onto his wide oak desk. They were in a small office behind the main congregation area. There were various plaques and awards on the walls, as well as the obligatory crosses and images of saints. Trista noted the small office golf set in the corner, a putter and a rolled up green. Father Michaels was an old man, his spidery white hair combed neatly to one side. His face seemed too heavy for his head and hung down like that cartoon dog, Droopy. He folded his gnarled fingers together and Trista could see the liver spots and varicose veins on the small white wrists.  
"You may find that strange for a man of the cloth to say, but its true. Oh sure, the bible talks about evil, we're told about it, told to believe in it. But I never knew evil beyond the theoretical until I saw that girl and the things she did to her poor family. Folks around here won't talk about it, unless you ask them right. I'm only talking about it now because I've been waiting to tell someone about it. Maybe saying it in words to another will take some of the weight off my mind." He grabbed at the rosary hanging on his chest and kissed it lightly.  
"I'd known Edward since he was 2 years old, when his folks moved here from Missouri. I've been in this town going on 52 years now. He was always a good kid, a little slow maybe but good hearted. I married him and Sheryl myself right here in this very church. That must have been 37 years ago now. Got married at 18, fresh out of high school. You never saw a more loving couple. It broke my heart to see them struggle to conceive. Consoling Sheryl after each miscarriage. I was the one to suggest they adopt, God forgive me. They brought Pamela to church the Sunday after they brought her home. She looked like an angel and they went on and on about how perfect she was. She had a bright smile and lovely eyes that seemed to dance with light, but I could see something in them. It was only a glimpse here or there. I can't rightly describe it. It was like there was something going on behind her eyes, some capering, maliciousness. I didn't take no notice of it at the time though. She was inducted into the faith and she made no trouble for anyone. She made friends fast and her teachers said she was a bright pupil. The sisters would talk about how she spent most of the time walking in the woods, sometimes alone and sometimes with her friends. The kids in town talked about it sometimes, how she would show them plants and tell them which ones you could eat and which ones were poisonous. They said she knew more about the forest than the teachers did. For a while everything seemed to be working well for the Andersons. Pamela fit right in and was loved by parents and kids alike. It was 2 years after she arrived that strange things started happening. One day the Madsen boy came running to Sheriff Grisham crying, saying he saw Pamela in the forest with a naked man who he'd said was hurting her. The sheriff followed the boy to her and sure enough there was a man having carnal relations with little Pamela. Sheriff Grisham flew into a rage and beat the man nearly to death before he came to his senses. The man turned out to be the son of a local farmer, later when he was well enough to talk he told the sheriff he'd been walking along the forest path and Pamela came out of the forest naked and laughing. He said she seduced him, made him eat some plant that made him feel lightheaded like he'd been drinking and took him into the woods to have sex. Well you can see how the sheriff might not have believed such a story, after all Pamela was only 11 at the time. They locked that poor boy up for 15 years because of it. He was only the first life she would destroy that year. A few months went by and Mrs. Ferruli, who was the school teacher then, started to hear stories about Pamela, the things she would do in the forest, the things she would show them, teach them.. It was a sort of shared secret between all the children, but you know how kids are about keeping secrets."

"Around this time I notice Ed Anderson acting strange. He was withdrawn and pale. As a man of the cloth, I know the symptoms of sin when they show themselves. He had done something terrible, or knew something terrible. When I asked him about it he just about burst into tears. I managed to help him into the confession booth so he could tell me in confidence. Now you know the things said in confession are absolutely confidential. I won't tell you what he said, only that after I felt like I might vomit or faint dead away. Of course I doubted Pamela's guilt at first. That such sins could be attributed to a girl of 11 was unthinkable at the time. The more I thought about it, the more I remembered the strange way Pamela acted, that mischievous look that seemed too old for a child to have. I went to Sheriff Grisham right away but when I'd gotten there Mrs. Ferruli had beaten me to it. She was telling him what the little Parker boy told her about Pamela. He had followed her into the woods many times, and each time he said she touched him down there and tickled him until it felt good. She and the other children would run around naked and tickle each other with their privates and Pamela would show them what to do and give them mushrooms or leaves that would make them feel happy. The things the parker boy described became so depraved Mrs. Ferruli had to excuse herself so she could vomit into a trash can. I told the sheriff about what Ed had told me, though not directly, only that it had many similarities with the Parker boy's story. We talked it around, the three of us. How should we handle something like this? The girl was so young, yet the things she'd done were serious sins, if not crimes. We talked all day until finally we decided the issue had to be addressed. Mrs. Ferruli agreed to talk with all the children about what they had been doing and explain the seriousness of it. The sherif agreed to talk with Pamela and I agreed to talk with the Andersons."

"I decided to speak with them separately at first. When I called Mrs. Anderson into my office after the service I told her we needed to talk about Pamela. That was when she burst into hysterical tears. She was sobbing and begging forgiveness. When I finally calmed her down she told me that Pamela had been sneaking into her room at night for the past year and….doing things to her. I was completely dumb struck. She told me how it started small, a touch, a grab here and there. She insisted on showering with her and asked all sorts of inappropriate questions. It was only after she drank some of the tea Pamela had made for her that she lost all control and gave in to her depravity. She began sobbing uncontrollably again and I simply sat in silence. Ed heard the sobbing and came in to console her and soon he was sobbing too. I counseled them as best I could and sent them home. I called the sherif and told him to keep Pamela there over night, at least until we could sort this out. He agreed rather quickly and I called the Andersons to tell them about it."

"Over the next week, the situation grew steadily worse. After Mrs. Ferruli had her talk with the children, many of them told their parents who became understandably outraged. There was talk of arresting Pamela, of locking her up, there were even whispers of killing her. I went to talk with Pamela myself and to see what the Sheriff had found out from her. But when I came into his office he wasn't there. I went to the holding cell they had converted into a room for Pamela and walked in to find the sheriff with his pants down and Pamela down at his crotch. The sheriff was looking up and moaning and Pamela stopped to look back at me, and she grinned. That was when I lost control. I grabbed her off of Grisham and threw her down on the floor. Grisham jumped up and backed away, looking surprised at first until the severity of the situation dawned on him and he looked down, gathering his pants and running from the cell. Pamela sat looking at me, still grinning. Just seeing that grin made you want to scream. She offered to pleasure me as well, she said horrible things until I screamed at her to shut up or I'd strike her down. I asked what was wrong with her, why she did these terrible things. She laughed at me. It wasn't the laughter of a child, there was no innocence in it. She crawled over to me like an animal and she kept describing sex acts she would do for me. When she offered to wear chior boy vestments and let me 'put it up my ass' as she put it, I couldn't take it anymore and I struck her. She cried out and laughed again, pawing at my pants. I hit her again and again but she wouldn't relent. It was when my fist was raised again for another blow that the deputies ran in. As soon as they did she burst into tears, begging me not to make her do it again, she didn't want to put the smelly worm in her mouth again. I was completely numb with terror. I didn't even feel it when the deputies tackled me to the floor."

Father Michaels looked ashamed and tired, he looked about 120. "They took me back to my house and told me not to leave town. I felt like my life was crumbling around me. I stayed up all night and just prayed, I prayed she would be taken away, would just go and be gone from my life. The next morning the Sheriff knocked at my door. He told me no charges were being filed and that Pamela was being sent to an all girls boarding school until she was 18. My prayers had been answered." Father Michaels rubbed his temples solemnly. "I don't know what that girl was. Possessed or just evil. I only hope I never have to see such a thing again. I pray to God that where ever she is, she can't hurt anyone else."

6

Dr. Adams refused to allow Trista to interview Ivy privately. She managed to talk Adams into allowing their interview to take place outside in the garden area, provided Ivy stay within a portable Plexiglas containment cell. It was the first sunny day in Gotham since she'd arrived and Trista felt confident Ivy would appreciate it even more. Adams arranged for all the usual guards to be denied access to the area and all cameras would be turned off. The only witnesses would be Ivy's usual eunuch orderlies, Francis, a large black man with a constant expression of blank stupidity, and Eugene, a slight, pale man with a feminine demeanor. When they brought Ivy out she was wearing a simple white under shirt and prison style white drawstring pants. As soon as the sun touched her she stopped and lifted her face to it, closing her eyes and taking a long breath. When she opened them again she was looking at Trista, her eyes were vivid green and seemed to catch the sun like a cat's eyes. She smiled and allowed them to lead her into her temporary cell. The cell sat on the grass and had no bottom allowing Ivy to feel the ground. She immediately threw off her cloth prison shoes and wriggled her toes between the blades. She let out a sigh and her shoulders lowered as she exhaled. The sun lit her shirt like a florescent bulb, revealing the curved outlines of her breasts and the darker pink of her areolas. Trista slipped off her own shoes, feeling the grass tickle the soles of her feet, the spongy, cool grip of the soil beneath. Ivy looked at Trista and smiled brightly.  
"It has been so long." She said, her voice high and pretty, like the voice of a teenager, though her file said she was only a few years younger than Trista.

"You don't mind if I get comfortable do you?" She asked and began to undress before Trista had a chance to answer. She pulled the thin undershirt over her head, shaking out her shoulder length red hair, making her breasts bounce the slightest bit. She loosened the drawstring of her pants and let them fall to the grass, stepping out of them gingerly. She was completely nude now and she reached her arms out to the sun like the leaves of a plant, taking it in. Trista glanced at the guards who only watched Ivy with disinterest.  
"They won't mind, they've seen it all before." Ivy was watching her with a mischievous grin. Trista felt her cheeks begin to warm and a faint tingle down below. She hoped Ivy wouldn't notice but she was almost certain she would. Ivy lowered herself and lay on the grass, spreading her arms out and crossing her legs primly. She moaned quietly and moved her arms up and down and she slid her feet back and forth, arching her back as though she were wrapped in the finest silks. Hearing the stories about her, the terrible things she'd done to men and women alike, and even Trista's own mild indifference to her bisexual experiences, she never believed she could find this woman attractive until this moment, seeing her naked to the world, pawing the grass in ecstasy, the soft swell of her breasts in the sun, her nipples hard and pink as pencil erasers, her curves clean and perfect as any sculpture, her bottom round and plump, blades of grass clinging to it, pale and soft as baking bread. Trista was losing herself in her. She had to look away, to reorient herself.  
"My name is Trista Martin, I'm with Cognition magazine. I'm researching for an article about you." She said all this to the gray stone wall of the asylum, more to herself than to Ivy. When she looked back at Ivy she was laying with her face in her hands, her feet kicking the air lazily, watching her with those green eyes and smiling girlishly. Trista could still see the perfect heart shaped swell of her bottom over her bright hair and forced herself to focus on her eyes.  
"We can talk if you want, if that's all you want." She added this last part with the slightest arch of her left brow and Trista pulled out her tape recorder, setting it up on the grass before sitting cross-legged in front of the Plexiglas barrier. Ivy watched her closely, studying the curves of her face, the lay of her golden hair, and the curves of her body, stifled within all those clothes.

Trista tried to think of the crime scene photos, of the hospital transcripts describing the crippling rashes and atrophied limbs this woman had inflicted. She felt the warmth start to fade.  
"I met your older sister." Trista said, looking back into Ivy's green eyes.  
"I can smell her on you, did you enjoy having her? Do you enjoy sex with women? Women are always so much more accommodating, more sensitive. When a man goes down on you, you can almost hear him counting the licks, keeping track of how much pleasure he gives and later expects you to give back two fold. With a woman, they take their time because they know it takes time to pleasure a woman. Do you find that's true?" Trista shrugged.  
"Maybe for some women." Ivy grinned and Trista remembered what the priest had told her about it. She could see the capering menace behind it.  
"Do you remember any of your family?" Trista tried to keep the questions she wanted to ask in her mind. She cursed herself for forgetting to bring notes. "  
They weren't really my family you know. Bendis and Sabazios, Willow and Moon. Bendis had a habit of snatching children from hospitals or parks, liberating them as she would say." Trista raised her eyebrows at that.  
"Do you ever wonder who your real parents are?" Ivy rolled over and crossed her legs, folding her hands behind her head and looking up at the sky.  
"My true parents are here. The earth my mother, the sun my father. Nature is my family." Trista found her eyes drawn to the dip of her belly button, the smooth decent into the perfect triangle of red pubic hair. She shook her head and tried to think of her next question. Ivy was looking up at her up-side down, her smile looking like a frown.  
"I want to see you naked." Ivy said simply. Trista shook her head as if she didn't understand what had been said.  
"You what?" Ivy rolled over and pushed herself up on her hands, her hair falling to one side of her face.  
"You are beautiful, I want to see all of you." It was such a bold request given in such an innocent way that threw Trista off. She felt the heat rising within her again. Trista stammered and looked at the eunuch guards who only watched them sedately.  
"No one's watching and they won't care. Come on. It'll be fun." Ivy looked at Trista with wide innocent eyes, innocent yet knowing. Trista still didn't know what to say. Ivy crawled to the edge of the cell and sat cross-legged like Trista. Trista could see the pale lips within the red pubic hair and a sliver of the moist flower within. She felt the heat rising dangerously within.

"How about this?" Ivy said seriously.  
"I won't answer any question until you take something off. One piece of clothing, one question. Fair?" Trista felt suddenly vulnerable. Her passions pushed her one way, her cautions and reasoning only barely holding it back. She had to remember the article, she had to remember where she was. She was in Arkham Asylum, in Gotham City. This woman is a murderer and a destroyer of lives. She is a monster. Trista felt some of her control returning. This was wrong. She'd never felt so consumed by passion like this, not even in the helter-skelter days of her teenage years. Maybe Ivy really was a witch. Or maybe it was something else. Something about each time her control returned. Ivy leaned back on her hands, exposing herself and looking at Trista with a patient, lusty smile. Trista felt herself slipping again, looking at the perfect mound of her breast, tipped by a perfect pink nipple within a perfect circle of areola. She wanted to touch it, to taste it. Trista had seen women in magazines, in movies, in her own bed, but they were only women. Ivy was sex incarnate. She was warm envelopment, salty, vulnerable, soft, like a sea of warm milk in which Trista would gladly drown. Trista felt the breeze against her neck and her control seemed to return momentarily. She had it. She had her question.  
"Pheremones. That's how you control people, isn't it?" Ivy grinned and waited to answer. Trista unbuttoned her blouse and pulled it off, exposing her simple white bra and the two moderate sized breasts held within. Ivy looked her over and smiled excitedly.  
"Lovely." She reached down and plucked a few blades of grass, holding them up to her nose.  
"That smell we all know, the smell of fresh cut grass, its actually alarm pheromones released by the plant to warn nearby plants it is being attacked. That smell we all love, that's the smell of grass screaming." She dropped the blades through one of the half-dollar sized holes in the Plexiglas.  
"The silent language of nature. Trees will release alarm pheromones when being eaten by pests, alerting other trees in the area to produce foul tasting enzymes to repel them. Certain plants can release an attracting pheromone designed specifically to attract the type of insect that eats the pest bothering it. People with their words and gestures and phonetic gibberish, they forgot how to speak the language of nature. Only those who pay attention can hear it. Words mean nothing. Even among people, the majority of our communication is non-verbal. Gestures, body language, pheromones, intonation. Once you learn the language of nature, you can learn to speak it too." Trista was surprised by this. This was something she herself had studied and learned. The sales techniques of con artists and the manipulations of effective people. The cold reading employed by phony psychics. Was this the explanation for telepathy, psychic sensitivity? People who can sense changes in body language, pheromones. It was amazing to think there was a whole world of communication going on that we are unaware of consciously. A language we speak without realizing and understand without knowing.

"Is that what you learned in the cult? From your parents?" Ivy sat back on her knees and folded her hands primly in her lap, squeezing her breasts together with her arms, waiting. Trista felt a flutter of fear but stood and unzipped the side of her skirt, sliding it off and revealing her matching white panties before sitting down in the same manner as Ivy. Ivy smiled warmly and leaned over on one arm, her eyes on Trista's crotch.  
"Not at all. Sabazios was only interested in sexual techniques and Bendis only knew basic herbs and botany. I had already learned all I could from them before he came for them. The Batman. You should have seen them squirm when they heard he was coming for them. The power he had over them, it gets me wet just thinking about it. I have moved beyond the teachings of my guardians, their plagiarized paganism, their juvenile rebellion against authority. Like all parents and teachers, they provide the path, not the destiny." Trista could see the guards fidgeting, looking irritated.  
"If you have these gifts and power over others, why not use it to get rich and retire to a private island? Why turn to crime?" Ivy's smile darkened and Trista could see that frightening glee move closer to the surface. Ivy looked at Trista's bra and waited. Trista was blushing hard and she felt her mouth becoming dry. She took another look at the guards who only regarded her with irritated boredom. I guess if anyone is watching, they'll be getting their eye full today. Trista reached around her back and fumbled with the clasps, feeling the pressure across her chest loosen. She held her bra a moment before letting it fall. The sun was warm on her breasts and the breeze cooled her erect nipples. Ivy smiled appreciatively. "  
You have beautiful breasts, my dear." She said, admiring them.  
"Nice shape, average size but firm with youth. I'd love to play with them." Trista looked up and took a deep breath, trying to quiet her heart pounding in her ears. Ivy was still admiring her breasts when Trista crossed her arms over them and looked at her, waiting.  
"Sorry, lost my train of thought." Ivy leaned back on her hands and crossed her ankles, wiggling her feet back and forth like a little kid. "Haven't you ever heard the phrase, 'the best things in life are free'? Being rich is boring. Getting men to give up everything to me is only fun for so long. My true passion has always been plants. Gardening, growing, creating life, cultivating it. It must be what motherhood feels like. Plants are so much more interesting than people. As for crime, crime is a human invention. There are no crimes in nature. There is death, sex, pain, cruelty, and fear; but no crimes. All living things fight to survive, to make their own way. Human nature is no different than any other nature. Its all about what you can do to get what you want and how you can keep others from taking what you have. I operate outside the illusions of law and society." Trista shook her head.  
"So that's it? You're just bored and doing what you want for fun?" Ivy's eyes widened and she looked at Trista's panties excitedly. Trista tensed and crossed her legs defensively.  
"Wait, that's not the question. Hang on." Trista thought furiously. This was it, her last question. Was she really going to do it? Expose herself to a psychopath like this? All at once Trista hated Ivy, hated her for putting Trista in this embarrassing situation. God, if Adams came out here, or Hillerman. Trista clenched her fists and quieted herself down, trying to think.  
"God, would you hurry it up, bitch?!" A shout from behind Trista. It was the effeminate guard, his face twisted with frustration. The bigger guy was glaring at her too. Trista glared back at them, how dare they interrupt her just because they were a little bored. They're doing what they're paid to do, Trista was making something important. She spun around back at Ivy who was up against the glass now, pressing her hands and her breasts against it and grinning darkly at her. She was doing this. She was making them angry, aggravating them with some chemical signal. Trista could feel it too but they must be more sensitive to it. Ivy's been working on this. Trista realized she might be I danger. So be it. She needed answers.

"What do you want? Why create those poisonous plants and spread them into the wild? Why damage the environment you love so much?" Trista didn't hesitate this time. She stood and thumbed the edges of her panties, pulling them down to her ankles with one quick motion. She stood exposed and waited for Ivy to answer. Ivy looked across her naked form and drank it in.  
"Gorgeous" She said simply, tweaking her left nipple lightly and beginning to breathe heavily.  
"You can't damage the environment, you can only change it. Those eco-freaks think the environment has to be protected and cherished because they think humanity is above it, beyond it. They think we should pity the environment. Can you imagine the kind of arrogance these people harbor? What I want is to bring us down. I want to make our environment more hostile towards humanity. That's all. We've been in control for so long we think we're special, above nature. I've seen the men who control the world, the ones who can wipe out whole ecosystems with a signature, the bleeding hearts who fight to protect environments that would consume them without mercy the moment they step in them. They were all petty and ignorant. We don't deserve to dominate this world. By some fluke we managed to get ahead of the natural order and we've been coasting on that windfall ever since. I want to take that away from us. I want us to hunt deer with sticks and rocks through the ruins of Wayne Tower, to wear utilitarian clothes with no fashion sense that will last us a lifetime instead of a season. I want us to have to lock ourselves in cages at night to protect ourselves from the wolves and lions. I want us to see the stars again, to look down from massive trees allowed to grow as large as the ruins of our society and see for miles with no smog where tiny figures grind wheat and lay strips of meat to dry on a crumbling highway, four lanes wide and scorching hot for a thousand miles. I want the world to be green again." Ivy was grinding herself against the Plexiglas now and the guards were shouting at Trista to be finished. Trista stepped toward the cell and Ivy licked at the half-dollar sized hole.  
"You don't have anymore clothes to take off, but if you come closer, if you let me taste you, I'll tell you when it will begin, when the seeds will be sewn to grow my vision of the future." Trista was breathing heavy now, the guards behind her were coming closer, their eyes wide with rage. Ivy pressed her breast against the hole, pushing her nipple out of the cell the slightest bit. Trista lost herself. She rushed forward and pressed her face to the Plexiglas, licking at Ivy's nipple, tasting the sweat and feeling the soft flesh on her tongue. It was intoxicating. She lifted her leg and pressed herself against the lower hole as the guards rushed at her, shouting. Ivy knelt and sniffed at the warmth radiating from Trista's groin and managed to dart a tongue in and out before the guards tackled Trista to the ground, throwing her hard and pinning her arms painfully behind her. Trista screamed in pain but they were both lost in their fury. The idea that they might kill her came into her mind like a cold wind and she screamed even louder. Being pinned beneath two large men, naked and exposed, even though they were eunuchs and wouldn't have any interest in her that way, it still terrified her more than anything in her life. She felt hot tears running down her cheeks and she looked back at Ivy who was watching with a wide smile and fingering herself vigorously. She closed her eyes and tilted her head back, shouting,  
"Its already begun! The seeds of humanity's downfall are already beginning to sprout!" Something snapped in her arm like a stick in a wet towel and white pain filled her world, sending her into unconsciousness.

7

Trista awoke in the infirmary of Arkham, her arm was stiff inside a temporary cast and hung from a sling. She saw her clothes in a bag beside her table and looked down to see a simple hospital gown covering her. She felt her face redden as she thought about who must have rescued her from the eunuch guards, what they must have thought. Maybe it was Adams. She clenched her fists and closed her eyes tight. She was still uncontrollably horny, even after everything and the dull throb of her arm. She had never been affected like this by anyone before. She began to move her hand to her crotch, feeling the tingle within, the desire to feel. She was in a private room in the infirmary. Maybe she could take care of this before a nurse or- At that moment Dr. Hillerman walked in looking worried and surprised. Trista let out a resigned sigh and thought what amazing luck this man had before standing and letting her hospital gown fall to the floor. Hillerman looked at her in shock and looked away as though Trista had exposed herself by accident. She strode over to him deliberately and threw her good arm around his neck, pulling him into a deep kiss, forcing her tongue into his mouth, tasting him. . She needed something inside her and she needed to get it over with. She was fumbling with his belt when he tried to ask about her arm. Trista just pulled his belt free and said  
"Shut up and fuck me."

After the deed was done, Trista sat up and started taking her clothes out of her bag. Hillerman sat up as well and looked to see where his clothes had been scattered in the mayhem.  
"I don't even remember what I came in here for." He said with a chuckle. Trista smiled and pulled on her panties.  
"I guess you want to know what happened with Ivy." Hillerman smacked his forehead.  
"That's right. I'd heard you were interviewing her and I knew she has strange effect on people. I wanted to know what you thought about it." Trista looked at him as smirked.  
"So you knew I'd been to see Ivy and that I might be a little wound up from the experience. Dumb luck my ass, you clever dick." He looked away sheepishly.  
"Honestly, I only wanted to make sure you were okay, and to make some some orderly or male nurse wasn't taking advantage of what ever state you were in." Trista chortled.  
"So you could make sure it was YOU who took advantage, eh?" Hillerman blushed furiously and went to get his pants which had found their way onto the hanging lamp.  
"Well better me than some of these other types in here." Trista pulled on her skirt, shaking her head at him with a smile.  
"I know how guys can get, despite what everyone expects, I hope you don't think this meant anything. Now that you've had me, I don't expect to become 'your woman'." Hillerman pulled his pants on and looked at her with a grin.  
"I learned my lesson on ownership from my last wife. This was nice, spectacular actually-" Trista smiled and looked at him darkly.  
"But it was just a moment. I won't make things different if you won't." Trista nodded appreciatively. He might be worth another go some time.

The door handle jiggled and they both spun to look as it swung open. The head nurse poked her head in and looked first to Trista and then to Hillerman, her expression switching to a disapproving mother.  
"Dr. Adams is on her way to talk with her, you had better not be in here when she does, young man." She shook her head at him and left with a tsk tsk of her tongue. Hillerman laughed and began searching for his shirt.  
"I saw my career flash before my eyes. Thank god for Beth." He grabbed his jacket after pulling his shirt over his head, most of the buttons had been ripped off in their passion, and peeked out the door to see if Adams was on her way. He shut the door fast and whispered a curse before searching franticly for a place to hide. There was a privacy curtain in one corner on wheels like a clothes rack and he pulled it around himself as Trista finished dressing herself. She spotted a few of Hillerman's buttons on the floor and kicked them beneath the bed and slid his shoes as far back as they would go. She could still see Hillerman's feet under the curtains and hoped Adams wouldn't spot them. She was trying not to laugh about it but the whole situation was absurd, as though she were a teenager hiding a boy in her room before her mom walked in.

Dr. Adams did walk in not two seconds later and regarded Trista who was sitting on the edge of her bed, dressed and smiling.  
"You seem to be in good spirits for someone who had just been assaulted." Trista made her smile go away and she tried to look more ashamed of herself.  
"It doesn't hurt so bad anymore." Adams looked at her with contempt.  
"You're playing a very dangerous game with these people, you know. Next time you might not be smiling." Trista clenched her teeth and tried hard not to roll her eyes at the old hard-ass. Until that moment Trista had been ready to explain to Adams about Ivy's use of pheromones and manipulation as a way of affecting her guards so she might be ready for it in the future, but after seeing the contempt in her face, she decided the old bitch could just figure it out on her own.  
"I'd like to hear you explain how this happened." She said coldly. Trista took a breath and turned to her, her eyes intense.  
"I'd like to hear YOU explain how two of your employees lost control of themselves and assaulted a member of the press interviewing a patient. That might make a better story." Adams glowered at her.  
"We at Arkham extend our sincerest apologies for the conduct of our orderlies, they have both been repremanded and relieved of duty. If you wish to press charges against them, I can provide you with their information." Trista nodded curtly.  
"I'm glad to hear it." Trista could see the cords of her neck stand out.  
"We spoke with Ivy about the incident and she claims they were the ones who undressed you during the assault, is that true?" Trista was surprised that Ivy would cover for her.  
"Yes, they seemed to be acting strangely because of Ivy. They didn't molest me but only because of their condition. It seems we both underestimated the effect Ivy has on people." She smiled a bit at this and Adams looked like a bad taste had come into her mouth.  
"Indeed. Well Ms. Martin, I do hope you will recover swiftly. I look forward to your absence as you do. If you need anything else from us at Arkham, please do not hesitate-"  
"Actually I do want something." Trista cut in. Adams looked flustered.  
"I want access to the patient files here. I feel like we've worked together long enough for you to know I can be trusted not to publish anything confidential." Adams looked at her coldly but there was something approaching respect there, Trista could have sworn it.  
"I will consider it, Ms. Martin. Good day." She turned sharply and left the room. Hillerman peeked out from behind the curtain.  
"Well done." He said with admiration.  
"I think you might just be getting on her good side, if she has one." Trista winked at him and kicked his shoes across to him.  
"Just make sure she doesn't catch you sneaking out of here."


	14. Chapter 14: Clayface

Clayface

1

The patient files for Arkham were stored in a long room full of file cabinets. The majority of the files were kept on computers so the file room was as quiet and stale as an old attic. Trista's arm was now encased in a solid cast and she asked Hillerman to help her with the boxes. When Trista had tried to pull up the files for the various super criminals in Arkham, they were all under a classification she hadn't seen before. S.C.P. An acronym Trista guessed meant super criminal patient, or special criminal patients. Hillerman said he thought it meant special containment procedures. Either way, all files designated SCP were locked and Adams told her even she couldn't access them. This was unexpected. Trista and Hillerman had assumed Adams was the top of the pecking order. Apparently someone else was keeping tabs on the super criminals. The only clue was the access denied message which bore the name and logo for the SCP Corporation. Adams refused to give Trista a straight answer about the company, only saying they were a corporate sponsor for the asylum. Hillerman remembered seeing logos for it on supplies and on the security guards for that wing of the asylum. He said they'd showed up 8 years ago and built a new wing with all new security features just for the SCPs. Trista couldn't access those files without going through the SCP corporation and she didn't have time to bother with it. She would have to rely on the files kept before the facility switched to digital, which was about 8 years ago when SCP corp revamped everything. The files she was looking for may not even be here. If this corporation locked up these files for some reason, they must have ordered any physical copies destroyed or transferred to them. Every drawer threw up a cloud of dust and Trista covered her nose and mouth with her sleeve. She decided to look for a name she knew first. Johnathan Crane. The Scarecrow as he is more well known. An ex-psychiatrist and sadist who enjoys scaring his victims to death. There was a faded C on this drawer and she hoped Crane's file was here, if not she'd have to start looking somewhere outside the usual patient files. Clements, Craig, Cramer, Crandall, Custer. Damn. No Crane. Now she'd have to start pulling down boxes.  
"No one's been in here for ages." Hillerman said, looking through a file.  
"I kind of miss the old paper and file methods. Holding it, organizing it, waiting for a fax or a print out. Everything is on a screen now." Trista was only half listening and started directing Hillerman to the boxes she wanted.

A few hours later she and Hillerman had gone through most of the boxes and cabinets she could see and was about ready to give up. She blew her nose for the hundredth time and left a grey Rorschach impression of dust and mucus on the napkin. When she looked for a trashcan to toss it in she spotted an old box behind a cabinet. It was sideways as though it had fallen back there and been forgotten. Her hope returned and she had Hillerman fish it out. Bingo. The box had a "to be destroyed" stamp on the lid and each file inside had one as well. This was like finding lost gold. She carried the box into an empty office and began going through the files. She set aside the ones she'd already interviewed and had a decent pile left. There were even a few she hadn't heard of. One was a patient only known as John Doe who had murdered a mother and son.  
"Who is John Doe?" Hillerman shrugged.  
"We'd all like to know that. He came in 10 years ago. No ID on file anywhere. He'd killed a young boy, made his own mother do it and then killed her too. It was awful. He talks about what he did but not who he is or why." Trista looked at the picture, the man looked absolutely uninteresting, a fade-into-the-wall kind. The service man look. Another was Patient 1419, Brad "Clayface" Lee. This one held her interest because of the extensive containment proceedures for him. He was to be kept in an air tight tank at all times, no lighting necessary, sealed ventilators, a two-way intercom for communication., no person allowed within the tank for any amount of time, cell employs a self-cleaning system which activates automatically daily and drains through a secure filtration system to prevent escape. It sounded like they were containing a biohazard.  
"What about Brad Lee?" Hillerman looked surprised.  
"He's in there? He was just an old junkie. Came in a few times to detox. What does it say about him?" Hillerman looked at the file. His expression turned troubled.  
"The tank." He said coldly. Trista looked at him with interest.  
"There is a tank in the asylum. It was part of the kitchen area until they built a new one in the new wing. We were always told to stay away from it. No one knew what it was for except Adams and the head psychiatrist at the time, Dr. Riser." Trista put the file on top and closed the box.  
"Looks like I've got a mystery to solve." Hillerman raised an eyebrow as if to say 'did you really just say that?'. Trista smirked and took the box in her good arm.  
"You happen to have Dr. Riser's number?" Hillerman looked up and thought a moment.  
"I'll have to check my Rolodex." Trista looked at him and raised an eyebrow as if to say 'did you really just say Rolodex?'.

2

Dr. Riser had been head of psychiatry at Arkham for 12 years before he retired. He lived about 3 hours away from Gotham and Trista agreed to meet him at his home. Dr. Steven Riser lived in a traditional colonial style house in the country. The type of place you'd expect a doctor to retire to. Trista saw a swimming pool and a small golf green with a flag in the backyard. He met her at the screened in porch that circled the entire outside of the house and he offered her iced tea, which she accepted.  
"Well now, it has been quite a while since I've talked of Arkham, though it will never be far from my thoughts. A place like that, and the people there, they have a way of staying with you. When they came and gave me my papers I couldn't help but feel relief, though it was mixed with a kind of regret. When you work in a place as long as that you can't help but get attached to it, even a place like Arkham. Well the facility was under new management and they were cleaning house, so to speak. Since my 401k was looking fine and I was nearly old enough to start getting my social security back, I decided it was time to hang up my hat. I'm sure you didn't come here to listen to a senile old man's maunderings. What is it you'd like to discuss?" Trista pulled the file out and laid it on the wicker table between them.  
"Its about a patient there at Arkham. He's been kept from the staff and this was the only record I could find. Do you remember him?" Riser squinted at the papers, looking through his gold rimmed glasses.

"Clayface. Oh my, yes I remember that one. The most bizarre case I'd ever seen. I don't rightly know where to begin." He took a sip of tea and looked out at the forest at the edge of his property. His face sank and Trista could see it growing pale as he remembered.  
"We didn't have a name for it at first. Everyone just called it patient 1419. When we received word of its arrival, we were ordered to prepare a sealed room of some kind to keep it in. We settled on the old cooler in the kitchen area because it had a lock and a small window, and we had it made up into a cell. When they brought it in, it was covered in wraps and belts, head to toe. It looked like an old mummy being brought into its tomb. They put it in the cell and sealed the door. I read the reports from the police and it was like reading a fantasy novel. This thing was almost a creature without species. That it had once been human was clear from the features, but they seemed to shift and change at will. It had been seen as taking human shape before, but the reports all detailed different shapes at different times. It had eyes and mouth only intermittently, arms and legs of various number and use, no organ was consistent to either function or position. It was reported to be seen sprouting sex organs and opening rectums to defecate. They tried to ID the thing but it had no fingerprints and a DNA sample contained the DNA of several people. The only name that came up with a record was on Bradly Bartram Lee, so the police report claimed it as its identity. I remembered Brad as a patient, he'd been hopelessly addicted to heroin for years and came to us when he wanted to kick the habit, whether by his own choice or by the state. I couldn't believe the reports at first, so I went to the cell." The doctor sat back and seemed to struggle with himself.  
"I looked in and the wraps and belts were all piled where they had left it. In the corner there was what looked like someone hunched over. When I turned on the interior light for the cooler, it recoiled and I saw that it was not human. It looked like the torso of an obese man, it was flesh colored and there were small hairs in patches. I watched as it undulated and a small cave seemed to form near the center, like a mouth opening. There was movement inside the opening and an eye opened within, looking at me. I shut off the light and left, nearly running." Trista couldn't believe this. Could such a creature really exist?

"We tried to communicate with it. When an orderly fainted inside the cell and was nearly enveloped by it, we gave strict orders not to enter the cell with it without full hazard suits. It seemed to give off an anesthetizing gas that will cause a person to lose consciousness. Analysis of the gas showed a mixture of narcotics and tranquilizers. The reports claim it was responsible for an unknown number of deaths, though they were unable to prove anything because there were no bodies or witnesses. It seemed an autonomous organism with no intelligence or will beyond survival. When presented with food it would extend a protoplasmic limb and pull it into a mouth, tray and all. It would later expel the tray or any indigestible pieces. Eyes formed in response to light, ears opened in response to sound, mouths opened in response to food. There were times when it assumed a human form, but it was always slightly off, never looking like any one person, its features dissolving in and out of focus." Trista shook her head.  
"This sounds like a monster. Why isn't it in a lab somewhere?" Dr. Riser shook his head and shrugged.  
"The courts are still arguing its species. It is being treated as a human being until such a time as its species can be determined. We tried many times to reach it. We left books in its cell, a television, a radio. They were all ignored or partially consumed. Samples of the things cells revealed it to be composed of what doctors refer to as UDT, undifferentiated tissue. This is a substance similar to stem cells and allows it to form any organ it needs, including bone and hair, provided it has the raw materials to produce them. Maybe we could harvest it to help the sick the way they want to do with stem cells but I don't think I would trust anything that came from that monster."

"We left a poster of a man in its cell for 2 weeks. It began to assume the shape of the man on the poster. Once it had fully assumed the man's form we attempted to talk to it again." The doctor shuddered and rubbed his forehead.  
"God help us, we sent Dr. Shaffer in to speak to it, in a hazmat of course. The thing looked at him and it smiled, you could see its teeth at least. There were too many teeth. It turned to him and it looked like a drunk man trying to do an about-face. Dr. Shaffer tried talking with it. The thing started to repeat the words back at him like a parrot, its voice was wrong. At first it was too low and wet, then it shot up to a falsetto, like someone fiddling with the pitch control on a soundboard. It walked toward him and it even walked wrong. Its legs lifted too high and came down twisted and awkward, its back arched forward and back like a boxer who'd taken too many blows to the head. It reached out like it was offering a hug and Dr. Shaffer screamed to be let out. The thing kept repeating 'Please' over and over, imitating the panic in Shaffer's voice. When we tried to open the door the thing leaped with a quickness it had never shown before and grabbed the handle of the door, pulling it shut with a terrible strength. I was screaming for them to get the door open but the thing had jammed it somehow. I could still hear Dr. Shaffer screaming inside and pounding on the walls. By the time the maintenance man had appeared with a crowbar, the screams inside had stopped. We pulled on masks and pried open the door. Even through the filters, I could smell it. I prayed I wouldn't vomit into my mask. The thing sat convulsing in the corner, its previous form dissolving into the mass of its body with a hideous grin. Dr. Shaffer had disappeared without a trace, only the hazmat suit and his clothes, torn open like a candy wrapper, remained. We took down the poster and locked the cell. We never tried to communicate with it again." Trista's mouth felt dry and she took a sip of the tea. "Where did it come from?" Dr. Riser shrugged helplessly.  
"We don't know. It was roaming the streets and sewers before it was caught by the Batman and brought to us. That such a thing can exist in this world, well, it makes you realize how little we know about the world."

3

Trista tossed a token into the turnstile and headed for the uptown A train. Her whole day had been a bust. The police reports named only one identifying witness in Brad Lee's case, Ernest Black, a homeless drug addict. She must have talked to every panhandler, junkie, and wino in the East Side but nobody knew Ernest Black or Brad Lee. Half of them thought she was a cop and wouldn't say anything, the other half thought she wanted to interview them and started unspooling their long and sorted history while Trista looked for a way to duck out unnoticed. She hopped onto the subway and sat, her feet tired from walking and her neck tense with frustration. She looked around the subway car, a few people sat watching their phones or reading the paper. A ratty looking man in a lost-and-found overcoat sat slumped in one of the seats. Trista considered asking him about Brad but she looked at his face and saw he was in a deep trance, probably drifting somewhere around the stratosphere. An electric buzzer sounded and the doors began to close. Before they did a man in a brown suit darted between people and jumped through the closing doors. The doors closed on the man's hat, a ragged fedora, and he let out an exhausted laugh, snatching at his hair which stood up in wild white curls, looking for his hat. He turned around and snatched it out of the closed doors, placing it crookedly on his head. The subway started moving and he looked back at the people outside the train.  
"So long, flatfoot!" He shouted with a gravely voice that sounded like he'd been gargling turpentine. His suit, Trista saw, was not actually brown but had once been black, the stress points faded to an almost flesh tone and the edges frayed. The jacket hung open and was covered in a constellation of cigarette burns, or bullet holes. He moseyed over with an unusual gait and sat down next to the vacant junkie. "Grassed on me, he did." He said morosely, patting the man on the shoulder.  
"I could feel the heat closing in, feel them out there making their moves. They thought they could tail me in a blue trench coat and I wouldn't savvy. No sir." He leaned to the side, putting his feet up on the man's back like a sofa armrest. He glanced over at Trista and grinned.  
"Junkies." He said, motioning to the man he was using as a footrest.  
"Virtual absence of cerebral event. Over liberated, you might say. Morphine having depressed his hypothalamus, seat of libido and emotion, and since the front brain is only active in response to back brain titillation; being a vicarious type citizen can only get his kicks from behind, we have no emotional connotation for him and therefore, no interest. He is aware of our presence but since it has no affective connotation, his affect having been disconnected by the junk man for the non-payment, he is not interested in our doings. Go or come, shit or fuck yourself with a rasp or an asp, the dead and the junkie don't care." Trista was surprised at how articulate the man was, considering his appearance.  
"And who might you be?" She asked.

He looked at her squinty with a clever grin.  
"I might be anybody. I might be Fingers Shatner, the afterbirth tycoon, or Assad McCoy, the shoe store kid. Maybe I'm just an honest popcorn john heading to the nearest Oyster Bar (the best dive in town) where I call the counterman by his first name. Who I might be is dependent on YOU might be? And who might you be?" Trista was starting to like this character.  
"Trista Martin. I'm a writer." The man put a hand to his face in mock surprise.  
"Oh my stars and garters! A writer? I had that myself once but I got cured of that. 8 years without relapse, honest to god!" He sits up and crosses his legs primly.  
"You seem like the character collector type, a paper pusher. Newspaper or magazine?"  
"Magazine." She said smiling in spite of her sore feet.  
"I'm looking for someone. Ernest Black. Do you know him?" The man's eyebrows went up, wrinkling his forehead into a maze of skin.  
"Ernie the Leech? Land sakes, I can't see why you'd want to talk to that old cunt. He got that name after he'd lost all his teeth and his nose and pallet were eaten away sniffing H. He's got his round disc mouth like the mouth of a lamprey. Last I heard he'd taken the cure up by the train yard on Pascoe Cove. Two kids found him under a boxcar, stiff as a poker." Trista slumped.  
"So he's dead?" She rubbed her forehead irritably.  
"He was my last lead." The man looked a her sideways.  
"Anywhere the Leech would lead you is no place a healthy body should go. So where is it you thought you might go?" Trista glanced at the junkie who was still slumped over and absent.  
"I'm trying to find out more about Brad Lee. Clayface." The man's eyes lit up.  
"Clayface Lee? What would Ernie the Leech know about him? To my knowledge the two didn't know each other from Adam." Trista looked puzzled.  
"The police report listed Ernest Black as the only identifying witness." The man threw back his head and laughed with a mouth of gold teeth.  
"Well that's Ernie the fuzz lover for you. Always quick to grass on anyone so long as it buys him a couple hours of warmth. I can tell you in confidence he was due for a hot shot anyway. This is a vial of poison junk given to informants or nuisance junkies for liquidation purposes. The hot shot is usually strychnine since it looks and tastes like junk. They never even get the needle out of their arm, they don't if the shot is right. Those kids probably found him with a needle full of clotted blood sticking out of a blue arm. The way I see it, the fuzz must have needed a stool pigeon to ID Clayface for their reports so they could hide the fact they knew exactly who he was." Trista sat up with interest.  
"The police knew Brad Lee?" The man reached into the junkie's pocket absently and pulled out a dollar and a crumpled cigarette. He put the cigarette in his mouth and the dollar in his pocket.  
"Knew him? He worked for em. Brad Clayface Lee was the best narcotics agent in the industry. He was whats known on the streets as an exterminator. Pest control. If a junkie or a pusher was making trouble, or might make trouble, they send Lee to score off them and pull a bust." Trista shook her head.  
"But he was a heroin addict. He couldn't be a cop." The man grinned, flashing his gold teeth.  
"This is Gotham, sweetheart. Cops are just crooks with a different angle and a better con. Lee didn't start out as a junkie, no one ever does, but you can't spend all your time moving through the world of junk without picking up a habit. It turned out to be the best move of his career. A pusher sees you shoot up, they trust you not to be fuzz. Lee was the exception to that rule and he twisted one pusher after another." Trista was in shock. She knew the GCPD was corrupt but this was something else.  
"What happened to him? What made him what he is now?" The man sat back looking at Trista skeptically.  
"This isn't your typical news story, my dear. You're stepping into the invisible world of junkies where magic, taboos, and secrets reign and truth has neither heft nor lift. I could tell you the story but I couldn't promise it would be believable, scrutable, or in any way comprehensible to an outsider such as yourself." Trista considered him. He seemed to know more about this than anyone she'd talked to so far. He seemed more than a little crazy but if she could find any kind of truth in what he might say, it was worth it.  
"I want to hear it." She said. He grinned and nodded. "Son cosas de la vida." He said with a shrug.  
"Not here though. A story like this needs atmosphere, preparation. Lets head over to the tunnel and I'll spin you a tale over a barrel fire and a pot of mulligan stew. But first-." He taps his arm.  
"Duty calls. I gotta see man about a monkey. Story like this needs steady nerves and my hour glass of junk is running low. Just need to make it before the shakes set in." Trista hesitated.  
"You want me to follow a junkie into the streets of Gotham to an unfamiliar place with no witnesses?" She looked at him with a cocked eye brow and the man put a hand to his chest in parody of an offended dowager.  
"Well I never! You have nothing to fear from me, my dear. Unless you've got a concealed weapon in those panties, you've nothing I'm interested in. I'm Tommy Wades, the last of the big time losers! Heir of the Wades family, inventors of the Wades adding machine. I'm as queer as a three dollar bill. I've had more fags in me than an English pub ashtray. I'm the oldest queen in the upper Bowery. My reputation is beyond reproach. Ask anyone. Hard Luck Sam here will vouch for me, right Sammy?" He leaned over and put a finger to the slumped man's chin, moving the jaw up and down while he spoke out of the side of his mouth in a ventriloquist falsetto.  
"Oh yeah, Tommy here is a hep cat. We go way back. Would eat his own hat before he'd step on a crack." Trista laughed until tears came to her eyes while Tommy bowed sedately, hat in hand.  
"Alright, where do we stop?"

They walked out into the Gotham streets. Tommy had a strange gait and seemed to be half stumbling and half dancing. She followed him until they came to the corner of Kane and West 5th. He looked around and Trista asked him who he was looking for.  
"Oh a junkie never has to look far for a pusher. His need conjures him like a bad spirit. Ah, Old Ike." He motioned to a man sitting at the counter of a coffee bar. They walked in and Tommy oozed up to the counter, drumming his fingers and flashing the man a golden smile.  
"Old Ike, the man I like. How're the huevos hanging?" The man looked at Tommy with indifference.  
"You got something for me?" He said in a low whisper.  
"Got 20 eggs for Fats. Need a ten tube advance of course." The man raised an eyebrow, the effort seemed to strain him.  
"On spec?" Tommy put his hands on his hips.  
"So I don't got the 20 eggs in my pocket, I'm telling you, its jellied consumme" Trista looked around nervously, the other patrons didn't seem to realize the men were even there. The old pusher seemed to sense her nervousness and looked back at her.  
"Whats with the gash?" Tommy waved her off and smiled at Ike.  
"Its bring your kid to score day. Now, about my tubes?" The man resumed his blank stare.  
"10 when I see it, 20 when the deal is done." Tommy drummed his fingers.  
"Need a tube now, Ike." The man pulled a napkin off a cup of coffee and took a sip.  
"Take a walk, you'll get one." Back outside a man approached Tommy and handed him a newspaper. They walked to a small alley and found an out of the way place. Tom pulled a small pencil case out of his suit pocket, inside was a syringe, a needle, alcohol, and a rubber tube. As he prepared the shot he tlked absently.  
"If god made anything better, he kept it for himself." He pulled a tube from the newspaper and filled the syringe. He held the needle over his vest pocket and let a few drops fall into it.  
"Old squirrels like me keep a stash in case we get busted. The lining here is stiff with junk." He began probing for a vein and Trista looked away.  
"Addiction is an ugly thing. Some believe the origin of opiates is extreterrestrial. An alien substance that alters and changes our metabolism into that of another creature, one which subsists on opiates. This is the true face of addiction. Others think it originates from the dead world and the effects it has reflect a state similar to life after death. Contentment and emptiness are tennants of enlightenment after all." He hits a vein and a column of blood spurts into the vial.  
"If you know how terrible it is, why not quit?" He pulls out the needle and takes a deep breath. He looks at her with a sad smile and says,  
"It takes a lot of guts to kick a habit, kid."

They walked through the streets, Tommy telling Trista the history of the places they passed. They came to a storm drain just outside a vast neighborhood of abandoned houses. A sign said 'Sunset Acres' but was vandalized to read 'Toxic Acres'.  
"The Toxic Acres. Once upon a time it had been prime real estate but the Ace Chemicals plant over yonder-" He motioned across an iridescent lake that fed into the Gotham river where an industrial complex sat dark and rusted like the bones of some blighted dragon. "Well they were churning out toxins and pollutants like an angry infection, having paid for the privilege. Even when people were losing hair by the handful and kids went blind, they still wouldn't quit. It wasn't until they dumped a load of arsenic into the river and a boy-scout troop had the misfortune of swimming in it. 24 dead kids is what it takes to lance a pimple like that. Ever since no one goes into that neighborhood without a full hazmat suit. Even the junkies and freaks steer clear of it. They say the houses there are pristine, all their stuff still there, windows unbroken, dishes on the tables. Every now and then a few desperate hobos will cover their faces with rags and make a run into one of the houses, like divers searching shipwrecks for sunken treasure." Trista looked at the eerily empty streets and the dead houses disappearing into the weeds and felt a chill. They went down the slanted concrete sides of the storm drain and came upon an old service tunnel entrance. There were various graffiti tags covering the walls and above the tunnel in red it said 'Tunnel of Loath'. Tommy threw out his arms and smiled.  
"Welcome to the Tunnel of Loathe! Room for one more inside, as always." Inside was dark but lit by various lamps and lights of every kind. The inside of the tunnel seemed to go on forever and all around it was a vast complex of makeshift houses built out of scraps and trash. A few people milled about, pushing carts or carrying bags. They called out and waved to Tommy as they walked through. They came to a large circular area surrounded by trash, old washing machines gutted and empty, refrigerators with their doors cut off, an old piano with no keys and the paneling removed to expose the strings within. At the center was a perpetually burning fire within a large pit where several spits hung with unidentifiable meat speared at the ends, hissing and dripping. One of the men by the fire looked over and stood up.  
"Tommy! You old bag of salt crackers!" The man held out his arms. He was a large man with a round boyish face, he wore a soiled flannel shirt and chino pants and a trucker had with a logo hidden behind years of dirt and time. Tommy grabbed the man in a bear hug.  
"Lovable Lou! When did you sink back into this old town?" Lou looked at Trista with confusion.  
"Brought me a live one, a writer, god help her. Come to pan for info on Clayface Lee." The man's confusion remained but he smiled at Trista and bowed slightly.  
"Clayface Lee. Haven't heard that curse in years. You gonna cat nip the girl or shoot it straight?" Tommy laughed and shook his head.  
"Christsakes, Lou! You know a winks as good as a nod to a blind bat." Trista looked at him, confused.  
"Catnip?" Tommy shrugged.  
"Catnip is used to con someone looking to score weed, since it looks and smells like it when it burns. Often passed on the naive or uninstructed. Now where were we?" Tommy removed his coat and hat and tossed them into an empty refrigerator.  
"Ladies and gentlemen! Cunts and pricks! Come one come all and hear a tale that will take the wrinkles out of your scrotum and turn the hairs on your ass white with terror!" The few who had been sitting around the fire turned with interest and several emerged from their shanties to gather around. Tommy kicked an old rusted ice box over and hopped on top, standing like a perfomer on a stage. Lou went over to the ruined piano and picked up a pair of old chopsticks, tapping the strings to create a faint melodic tune.  
"Tonight we hear the story of Clayface Lee, the exterminator. Before we begin, let us say the junkie prayer." He put his hand over his heart and looked down solemnly. Trista found a place to sit and got out her recorder.

"Dearly Begrudged." He began.  
"We are gathered here today in the valley of rape and despair to witness and join these two in the irrevocable shackles of chemical matrimony. Junk abundantly blesses the habit that binds you through its hypodermic sacrament, it debases and diminishes those it has already consecrated by chemical baptism." He pauses and the others all say in unison, "  
Wouldn't you?"  
"Do you take this junk to be your habit, to need and to hoard, in good times and in bad, in sickness or on the nod, for richer or poorer, for all the days of your life till death do you become cured?" Again he pauses and the others smile and say,  
"Wouldn't you?" He places his hand on his chest, the other behind his back and gives a neat bow.  
"Then by the power vested in me by the state of my mental degradation, I now pronounce you Junkie and Habit. You may kiss the sky." They all clap and shout approval as Tommy bows graciously, like a conductor.  
"Now then, before we get to the matter at hand, let us first set the scene. Gotham City, ladies and gentlmen."

4

.An Ode to Gotham City

Welcome to Gotham. The city of cold fire. The town with no cheer. Where the bat's teeth marks are on the sky, like a black clay tarp thrown over the world, the smell of atrophied gangsters and diesel hits you like an earthbound ghost, follows you at North and Barr Town, The Bowery, Robinson Park, the panhandler of dreams, the conman past invading and hustling the naive present for a future it was only ever promised. Into the East End where broken dreams litter the streets like dead birds and the steam comes out of the grills like the whole goddamned town is ready to blow. Into the Narrows, where the bricks are all scarred with jailhouse tattoos and every building squats in the smog, covered in TV antennas like the sensitive, erectile, black feelers of some vast and inscrutable insect, waiting for some form of stimulation from the silent and meaningless sky. In life-proof houses, the people prostrate themselves before their television shrine, basking in the warmth of better times and better people. And the Gotham City drag hits you like no other drag in the world, worse than high mountain towns where the air is thin like death in the throat. There is no drag like Gotham City drag. You can't see it, you don't know where it comes from. But its there. The Gotham City drag is waiting like a junk pusher at every corner, behind the black two-way mirror windows, and in the cocktail lounges at the end of every subdivision street (every block in Gotham has its own bar, liquor store, church and paycheck advance hustler. Let us not forget the only free cheddar to be found in Gotham is in the mouse trap, my friends. Its the best deal in town.) It hides in the stairwell, it hangs in the curtain, and it sleeps in your hat. Only the young bring anything in, brought here by bad directions or born here after a bad spin on the parental lottery wheel of fortune, and they are not young very long. And the clock-tower ticks out like a dripping faucet until you're full of rag water, bitters, and blue ruin. And you spill out over the side to anyone who'll listen. And if you can't score for a sympathetic ear,E you'll end up running through empty auto-mats and subway stations, chasing the shadow of your child self and screaming "Come back, Kid! Come back!" and follow your boy right into the Gotham river, down through condoms and orange peels, mosaic of newspapers, down into the silent black ooze with gangsters in concrete and pistols pounded flat to avoid the probing fingers of ballistic experts. Beyond the river lies the bloodless frontier, Slaughter Swamp, where even the dead will get up and drag themselves out for fear of being alone there after dark. Out through the iridescent, acidic lakes and miasmic, brown lagoons where alligators crawl around in broken glass and tin cans and aquatic black centipedes, some say reach up to six feet in length, move unseen through the sucking black slime only emerging on the bone white tussocks of dead wood to belch out poisonous methane in long gibbering whines that sound like the death screams of a rabbit.

The legends of the dead returning from the swamp date back to the Indians but no one has ever attempted to uncover the reason or harness its power other than nameless inbred cults and forgotten, doomed pioneers. The only one history remembers was Raj Abdul, the mad Arab, who supposedly derived an elixir from the swamp that could relapse a person who'd taken the death cure. But no one ever came back sane and rational. They all ran screaming for the nearest cemetery, killing anyone in between. One or two are rumored to be beating their heads against the padded walls of an Arkham cell to this day. As for the mad Arab himself, they say he was carried off into that swamp by a baying pack of the souls he relapsed from death and no one ever saw him again, alive or dead. As for the origin of such horrors, only myth offers a glimpse.

Gotham is not a young land. It is old and dirty and evil before the settlers, before the Indians. The evil is there, waiting. It was said that on the seventh day God did rest. And as the withdrawal symptoms from his six day creation bender began to take hold he found himself in the land we now know as America. There, coughing and sweating in the junk-sick morning, he came upon the place we now know as Gotham City and proceeded to squat down on old bones and give birth to a great, inscrutable turd, black with the blood of internal hemorrhaging and organ failure. And where that turd landed, green valleys blackened into wastelands and rivers silted up and turned to oozing marshes where nothing grew, not even a mandrake. It was in that blighted, secret place that even the Indians knew to steer clear of, that the founding settlers of Gotham City, a group of Norwegian misfits led by a mercenary of ill repute, came upon the land they were promised would be a virginal paradise. What they found was a septic and gangrenous wound gouged into the earth where the only things that thrived were poisonous, invasive, dangerous, or desperate. Well those settlers, delirious with fatigue or swamp gas, were determined to make a heaven of this hell and built a town which carried on the reprehensible reputation of the swamp it was built upon to this very day.

As for God, well they say, after successfully kicking his creation habit, came back only once, took one look at us and ran screaming back to the void beyond where he took a three gain shot and died of an overdose of time and a cold turkey withdrawal of breath, leaving the world he created in the throws of his addiction behind to drift through the silent dark until the Man finally comes along to shut off the heat for the non-payment. The only one to notice was an old German on a mountain somewhere, but the people just chalked it up to the syphilis eating holes in his brain like a secretive cupboard rat, and went on believing whatever was convenient at the time. But I digress, as usual.

The city changed hands as often as any American town and each was as corrupt and deplorable as the previous. First the Norwegians, then the British, then the Americans, there was even a bizarre period when its certifiably insane proprietor claimed it belonged to the republic of Tunisia to avoid bothersome restrictions imposed by the US government upon which its citizens eventually declared war and brought about the epic massacre of 1806, the death toll of which has yet to be surpassed. Crime took to Gotham like cancer to a prostate from the very first days of its inception and no other city in the first world can boast a record of corruption, scandal, deprivation, or despair that compares to the sorted histories of crime and atrocity Gotham City claims. There are only three rules in Gotham; 1. Never give anything away for free. 2. Never give more than you have to give(always keep them hungry and always make them wait) 3. Always take everything back if you possibly can. Gotham does not sell its evil to its citizens, it sells its citizens to its evil. It does not improve and simplify itself, it degrades and simplifies its citizens. There are no tourists in Gotham. Every road into Gotham is a one way street. You can't go back, you can only go deeper.

Gotham has always had bats in its belfry and crocs in its sewers. Optimism in Gotham is profane and quantitative like money. The virus of need has infected Gotham from the moment one small step for man came upon its blighted surface. The face of evil is always the face of "total need". The unspoken motto of Gotham City is, "Wouldn't you?". Yes, you would. You would lie, cheat, sell out your friends, steal, do anything to satisfy that viral Gotham City need. A every citizen of Gotham is in a state of total sickness, total possession, and not in any position to act in any other way, just as a rabid dog cannot choose but bite. They say misery loves company, but in Gotham misery needs company. We'll take your charity, your optimism, your selflessness, and your sacrifice any way we can get it. We don't deserve it, but we need it. And when you've nothing left to offer we'll take your hate, your pessimism, your pettiness, and your self-righteousness any way you'll give it. We don't need it, but we deserve it. And when its all drained away and all that's left is an empty shell of apathy and nihilism, we wait and watch as the virus of need takes hold and you become a true citizen. Wouldn't you?

Welcome to Gotham. Room for one more.

I wasn't born in Gotham but the world network of junkies lead me to it, just like marajuana leads to heroin. I thought I could take those junk bullets and leave em, save a few for my bad days. Well, we all have those bad days where we can't win for shit. And the more you use em, the more bad days you have without em. Then it comes down to all your days being bad without the bullets. Then its time to stop messin around and kiddin yourself. Kid, you're hooked. Heavy as lead. That's how I found myself in Gotham. It wasn't long before I graduated with honors from the University of Gotham City Addiction with a masters in the Algebra of Need, minor in LGBT studies. I wasn't the youngest graduate but I was the top of my class.

Now the stories and legends of Gotham were enough to fill a library with smut that could make the pope die of shame on the spot. But the one that stands out for me is the story of Brad Lee, Clayface. He got that name because his skin tone was a stone grey of black under white, the kind you sometimes see in mixed races. He had a face which was unremarkable and instantly forgettable. After meeting him you couldn't be sure he had a face at all. He would walk around humming a tune and the people around him would take it up. He was so spectral, gray and anonymous they don't see him and think it is their own minds humming the tune. Anytime a song would come into your head for no reason you knew Clayface had come around. Brad Clayface Lee was the best narcotics agent in the industry. He could walk up to any pusher in Gotham and score direct and the pusher wouldn't remember him afterward. Not only that, he was a hardcore dope fiend who would cook up and fix right in front of the pusher before pulling his badge. He was whats called an exterminator. If some new pusher was making trouble, or if an organization fell behind on payments to the GCPD, they send Lee the exterminator to bust their pushers.

I was working with the Shakeman when I remember hearing about it. We was workin the marks out in Robinson Park when word came around that Clayface Lee tried to bust a pusher for the Joker's crew. Anybody who knows anything knows you don't cross the Joker. Crossing him is like crossing a landmine. Well the word was Clayface Lee was getting fixed up with a hot shot. Knowing the Joker, it wouldn't be a simple shot of strycnine, that's no fun for him. He put some devil's cocktail in the tube and rigged his room with a one way whore house mirror and charged a Hamilton to watch. I decided to see for myself and the Shakeman came along. I had seen a hot shot before but this was something else. There were a few others there, a few of Joker's crew, and the man himself. He stood at the back, his face streaked up with that grease paint we wears like war paint and his eyes glowing like the pilot light of a stove waiting for the gas. Just being in the room with him made you nervous, like being in the room with a wild animal. The Shakeman asked him what was in the hot shot. The Joker just gave him a rotten toothed smile and pointed to Lee who was taking the shot. The look on his face when it hit, kid it was tasty. He jerked and spasmed, foam flying from his mouth, spattering the mirror, his back arched until it snapped, we could hear it crackle even through the glass. His pants darkened at the crotch and shit dribbled out around his ankles. Even with his spine snapped he flailed and jumped across the room, throwing blood and snot and feces all over the walls. He had a look of absolute horror on his face and stopped only a moment to look at us through the mirror before bashing his head against it, sending a network of cracks that turned the window almost opaque. He reeled back with impossible strength and bashed his head again and again, leaving blood and scalp stuck to the glass shards and seeping through to our side. He finally fell dead after brains started bubbling out of his ears and everything was dead quiet. At a loss for words, my mouth hanging open. One of the Joker's crew said, "Cool." And everyone else seemed to let go of their breath at once. The Joker just smiled. They dragged him to the river and tossed him in, down through condoms and orange peels, mosaic of floating newspapers, down into the silent black ooze with gangsters in concrete and pistols pounded flat to avoid the probing fingers of bottom feeding ballistic experts.

No one can say for sure when Clayface Lee came back, since he never left any kind of impression where ever he went. A cop told me he'd reappeared about a week after the hot shot. Just showed up for work like always, having no idea what had happened to him. They put him back on the beat and chalked it up to dumb luck he survived. Then they noticed the changes in him. He could get a fix just by rubbing against a junkie on the nod, like a contact high. He started paying the younger junkies to let him rub up agaisnt them. One of them, this elitist fairy called himself Freddy Flowers, said he would strip naked and hold him, making himself soft like jelly until he had completely surrounded the poor kid. When he was done the kid was covered in this milky slime like rancid jism. His habit started to jump geometric. Soon he needed a recharge every half hour. He began cruising the precincts and bribing the Hack on duty to let him in a cell full of junkies. No amount of contact seemed to fix him and his odd behavior finally got him called into the District Supervisor of Narcotics office. He went in alone but one of the narcs stuck a bug under the desk so they could listen in.

"Bradley your conduct has given rise to rumors, and I hope for your sake they are no more than that, being so unspeakably distasteful." Papers rustle. "Good lord man….hrumpf. The department must be above suspicion, certainly above such suspicions as you have seemingly aroused. You are lowering the entire tone of the industry. We are prepared to accept your immediate resignation." A thud can be heard like knees hitting carpet. "No, boss, no! The department is my very lifeline!" Shuffling sounds of knees on carpet. "I'll do anything, boss! Anything!" The low thunder of office chair wheels can be heard. "Really this is most distasteful! Have you no pride! I must say I feel a distinct revulsion. I mean there is something…well…rotten about you and you smell like a compost heap! I must ask you to leave this office at once!" More shuffling of knees and the squeak of a great weight leaving an old chair. "I'll wipe your ass! I'll wash out your dirty condoms! I'll polish your shoes with the oil on my nose!" A muffled wretch followed by undecernable paniked words said through a coat sleeve. Silence. "No! NO!" A sound like a wet mop being dunked into a bucket. Silence.

Thirty minutes later they come in to check on them and Clayface Lee was sitting in the DSN's chair, high as a kite. He looked like he'd gained 40 pounds and his face was grey as ashes. The DSN disappeared without a trace. They kept Lee in the detox tank overnight but they couldn't find any trace of the DSN and had nothing to hold him with, so they let Clayface go. Terror swept the Gotham underworld. Junkies and agents disappeared. A group of whores in a brothel saw him ooze up to a client and envelop him. They said he gave off a thin mist that seemed to anesthetize them so they could only watch as he absorbed the john. The heat was on for Lee. The cops wanted him, the pushers wanted him, there wasn't a man woman or child in Gotham who wouldn't put a bullet in Clayface Lee if given the chance, yet he seemed to move unseen through the streets and alleys. The only time I saw him was when I went to score off Wrong-way Carl on the East End. Moving through the junk world is like being in a dream. One minute you're scoring off an old time shmeker, the next you're staring at a plate of eggs answering questions asked by a lesbian trombone player with a mohawk and a hundred rings in her ears, the next you're naked and looking for a lost cat in a back alley for some friend you can't recall the name of. Like in dreams, the transitions between these various lives and events is seamless and unnoticeable. You only become aware of the absurdity of it when you wake up, only instead of waking up in your bed, you wake up in the dream itself and realize it isn't a dream at all. Sometimes it's a dream you wake up in, like finding yourself at a party with strangers, and other times it's a nightmare you wake up into.

I came out of the junk haze I was in a dark room with black curtains over the windows and a soiled matress in the corner. A junkie was passed out half on the matress, half on the floor. Behind a door I could hear muffled conversation and quiet jazz music. The smell of weed smoke and sweat hung in the air. As my eyes adjusted to the dark I could see someone else sitting in the corner, rocking back and forth like a junkie with the shakes. Memories while on junk are like events experienced through the front brain alone. Flat statements of external events with no emotional conotation or nostalgia. I remembered following the junk trail to a pimp pusher called Baby Shoes. He was a ritual weed smoker and very puritanical about junk, the way some tea heads are. He had a flat nose and little red eyes that lit up whenever he looked at a chick, and went out whenever he looked at anything else. Baby Shoes had put down a con on the streets offering the cheapest junk in town. Junkies lined up around the block to meet with him and I had come in on the junk beam to see for myself what he was selling. He had come across Clayface Lee and managed to lock him in a back room somewhere. He noticed the narcotic effect Lee had on people and started charging by the hour for junkies to share a room with him. If he noticed the junkies disappearing now and then, he didn't care. I paid for my hour and sat for an unknown period of time before coming off the nod and realizing where I was. I took a moment to orient myself and stood on stiff legs. When I moved it seemed to notice me there. It spoke with a gutteral flatulent voice like bubbling ooze, a sound that hit you right in the guts and made you feel like you had to drop trou.  
"Lost…..have no…no idea….can't….can't remember…..anymore." I stepped to the side and pulled the curtain back enough to see. When the light touched him his skin retracted and tightened and his eyes seemed to float into his sockets from somewhere deep inside. He looked at me and I felt bugs under my skin.  
"Losing." It gurgled.  
"Losing….myself….Brad…..Lee…..name…name is."  
"Clayface Lee?" I asked, more to confirm to myself. A look of recognition flashed into his eyes and his features became sharper.  
"Lee! Name Lee…..agent….." He began to list numbers that might have been a badge number.  
"Fix." It muttered and looked down at the passed out junkie. It reached out with a long blob of protoplasm, feeling for the junkie like a blind bottom feeder.  
"Jesus, Lee." I said without hearing myself and the feeler retracted slightly. He looked up into my eyes and I saw desperation there like a cornered animal, then the feeler touched the junkie and the eyes went cold and they had no more life in them than a crab's eye at the end of a stalk. A comotion from the hall brought things back into focus and I heard the familiar shouting of orders that meant the fuzz had busted the place. Lee noticed it too and pulled the junkie toward him and other protoplasmic feelers emerged, drawing him up like the legs of a spider, pushing him into a huge gaping maw that had opened in its abdomen. Thudding boots from the hall and bangs of doors being kicked in followed by shouts of 'clear'. Animal reactions slowed time, giving me a moment to decide. Out the window and down to the street. If I was on the thrid or fourth floor I was as good as dead but there were worse things than dying and one of them was spending even one more second in the room with that thing. I turned in time to see the cops kick in the door, flooding the room with light and causing Lee to reel back and shreek like a wounded bat. It had dropped all pretense of human form and leapt into a writhig mass of flesh, mouths full of transparent teeth, rectums opening and defecating, phallic organs rising and joining together like sinew. I was a falling black star, a glittering tail of glass behind me, in a low arc to the street below as the firecracker pops of gunfire errupted from the ruined window that looked like a obsene mouth full of broken glass teeth. I picked myself up wrapped in a black curtain robe with a curtain rod staff, hobbling on a broken ankle and a few cracked ribs and started west.

I thought the fuzz might have nailed him then but a few months later the word came around that Clayface was making a name for himself as a pusher in the underground. He had holed himself up in a chamber deep in the Gotham tunnels and was pushing the purest junk in town. Whats more he was giving it out for free, breaking one of the tenants of junk pushers. You tell junkies where to score for free and you'll never see the end of the line headed your way. Word came around what the real deal was. If you find him deep underground, as soon as you enter his presence the nod comes on you and it don't let up. The chamber he sits in like an aztec god was already packed to the ceiling with junkies of every variety sitting in silence. They drank the piss that pooled in the center of the chamber and ate the junkies who'd taken the death cure. Clayface would just sit at the center, giving off clouds of junk. Some of the older ones who can't fix on the gas crawl over to the multitude of errect penis' at the base of the creature, sucking out the white fluid within like piglets at a mother sow. The only time he is roused to action is when his own junk starts to run low. When this occurs the whole chamber becomes a frenzy of activity. Clayface gives off an aphrodeziac pheromone that sends the chamber into a vicious orgy. Junkies pile on one another or approach the quivering mass of Clayface who sprouts sex organs of every variety to fuck and/or be fucked for hours on end. When this baccinalia ends the junk comes back and they all settle into their own spilled jism and feces to drift into the void of junk. There is always more than a few junkies missing after each of these, allowing room for the patient multitude outside to join. Clayface began to take on religious significance in the junkie world. Being in his presence was the junkie nirvana and many of his believers eagerly anticipated the day they would be absorbed into their living god to become one with all. Liquifactionism became the religion of choice for junkies all over Gotham.

When the Batman came for him at last, he had to fight through an army of rabid junkies just to get to him. When he finally got to him, Clayface had grown to an enormous size and, detecting the danger presented by the Bat, released a gas that drove everyone within range into a murderous rage. No one knows how he did it, but he had reduced Clayface to a size that could be transported and they hauled him off to the funny farm to fume in an airtight tank to this very day.

Just another day in Gotham.

Son cosas de la vida.

5

When he finished his tale, the others all talked among themselves and shook their heads, eyes wide with paranoia. The sun was setting, based on the blood orange color of the light filtering down through the grid iron opening at the top of the shaft they were in. Tommy hopped down from the ice box and tossed a cigarette like he was flipping a coin, catching it in his mouth effortlessly and popping a match alit with his thumb nail. He took a puff and grinned at Trista. He was the most interesting man she had ever met. The others had began filing toward the large crowd gathering at the opening of the tunnel. Trista looked after them.  
"What are they doing?" Tommy took a puff and snorted the smoke out of his nose in a long sigh.  
"Its Joker's night. We have to barricade the tunnel as best we can." Trista cocked her head.  
"Joker's Night?" Tommy shook his head and took anouther drag.  
"A tradition here in Gotham, comemorating the theatrical debut of the clown prince of crime. Every year, young hoodlums and burgeoning killers take to the streets and cause as much chaos as they can. Murder, rape, arson, assaults, anything to make a name for themselves and stick it to the man. Some of them are wanna-be Jokers, others do as a kind of offering to the man himself so that maybe if word gets to him about it, he might exclude them from the next crime wave he starts, or even offers them a cut in. Mostly its just a chance for people to be the evil little shits they really are for a night. Like Halloween for crooks." He finished of the smoke and crushed it out against his shoe, tucking the butt into a vest pocket.  
"Last year someone tossed a molotov cocktail over the barrier down here and killed 4 folks. A couple years before that they dropped a live grenade down a man hole, blasting a dozen people and killing dozens more when the water main ruptured and flooded out most of the tunnel. No one goes out on Joker's Night unless they aim to take the death cure. They rushed the Gotham Art Museum and threw acid in the faces of priceless portraits, they rupture sewer mains with air hammers outside cafes, they turn into a Viking raiding party and rape, pillage, and burn whole streets." Trista shook her head with disbelief.  
"Don't the police do anything, or the Batman?" Tom laughed without much humor.  
"Most of the mayhem goes on in the poorer parts of town. They crack down on the business districts and high class joints, but they don't have the time or the care to come down here. Everyone has different priorities. Mostly what they do is bust the ones they nab twice as hard as a deterrent for the rest, but if you're out on Joker's Night you can't have a lot of stock invested in your future holdings, savvy? Son cosas de la vida." Trista looked at the people carrying furniture and setting up scrap wood walls.  
"You keep using that phrase. What's it mean?" Tommy stood next to her and watched the homeless work.  
"It's a spanish phrase I picked up in Mexico City. It means, 'That's just the way life is.'. All we can do is keep doing." Trista watched them, building a dam against a cruel and indifferent world, and she asked if she could have one of those cigarettes. Tommy chuckled and fished a crumpled smoke out of his jacket pocket, written on the side of the cigarette in black ink were the words 'Never Knows Best'. Trista looked at it a moment before putting it in her mouth and cupping her hands around the match Tom had struck for her.  
"My sister used to say that all the time. You kind of remind me of her. She was one of those crumbling beauties with a razor sadness that only got worse with he clang and the thunder of the southern pacific going by. There was nothing wrong with her that a hundred dollars wouldn't fix but she never wanted anything to do with anyone, man or woman. Last I heard she went into a mushroom cult and disappeared. Just another ghost in the city of the dead." He looked up and there was pain in his face, like the pain only the old understand.  
"Well its getting late and I wouldn't feel right sending you out into the streets without an escort. What do you say I walk you home, or the equivalent?" Trista smiled and exhaled smoke to one side of her mouth.  
"Such a gentleman." Tommy bowed dramatically and they squeezed through the barrier and into the drain way outside.

The sky above was a flaming red through the clouds, like a scene straight out of revelations. Businesses were closing early, people stuck in cars trying to get home like fleeing refugees from a war torn country. As they walked, Trista asked him about Gotham, about the Batman and what his take on all of it was.  
"Ah yes, Gotham's guardian strangel. The dark knight. The vigilante. Gotham City is like a deep sea angler fish, dangling the alluring light of need to attract the best and brightest. This city goes through heroes like a junkie goes through junk. The more it uses them up, the less it has; and the more it has, the more it uses them up. We need heroes but we don't deserve them. Just look at the violent reaction this city had to the bat. Like an immune system creating antibodies, this city created monsters to combat this new threat to the status quo. Now we have alligators in our sewers, clowns in the basements, witches and goblins lurking in our broom closets. The bat stepped in the same Gotham tar we all do and it sucked him down to hold him here, to digest him and spit out the bones. The Batman is here to stay, whether he likes it or not, and the freaks like Joker and Scarecrow are what will keep him here." Trista wished she'd had her recorder on but just tried to commit what he said to memory.  
"What about the Joker? You said you met him? What is he like?" Tom smiled, flashing his gold teeth that seemed like burning embers in the evening light.  
"The Joker is what we'd all be if we let Gotham into our hearts. He is an agent of madness, the crawling chaos. He isn't the devil, he is who the devil has to check under his bed for every night. He is the only complete man in Gotham, except for the Batman." Tom adjusted his hat and made a circle with his thumb and forefinger before spitting through the hole.

"I remember back before he was a household name, he reserved a table at the fanciest place in Gotham, Ché Colbert. Had to book it a year in advance. This place was so high class and distinctive they could serve literal garbage for food and no one would say a word, even while they were quietly dying of botulism. The owner and chef of Ché Colbert was Francis Colbert, a cruel and exacting tyrant who regularly reduced his staff to tears or suicide. His cuisine was considered the finest in the world and those fortunate enough to consume it had to do so under the cold, scrutinizing gaze of Colbert as he paced the dining area, making sure the guests had proper appreciation in their eyes. So Joker shows up in clown paint and a bright purple suit with an enormous stove pipe hat and an entourage of circus freaks in evening wear. The maitre'd was frozen with terror and could only stand by as the Joker seated himself and his party at a table. When Colbert in all his gourmand majesty passed by to scrutinize the obscene clientele, the Joker looks up from his plate and motions to one of the freaks, who proceeds to pull out and toss a bottle of ketchup to him. He then douses the cuisine and slurps a great handful, giving Colbert a jolly thumbs up. 30 gourmets stop chewing at once. You could have heard a soufflé drop. Colbert lets out a bellow of rage like a wounded bear and runs to the kitchen to arm himself with a meat cleaver. The maitre'd snarls like a vicious baboon, his face purple with anger. The saucier grabs a boning knife and leaps over the counter like a trained gymnast. They chase the Joker through the dining room with murderous intent, knocking over tables, vintage wine and matchless food crash to the floor, the Joker's shrill laughter cutting the air like the slashes of a rapier. Cries of 'Lynch him!' ring out and a gourmet in a tuxedo begins fashioning a hangman's noose from a silk curtain rope. Finding himself in imminent danger of death or dismemberment, the Joker plays his trump card. He throws back his head and lets out hog call and a hundred famished pigs he had stationed nearby rush into the restaurant, slopping the cuisine. Like a great tree, Colbert falls to the floor of a stroke where he is eaten by the pigs. The people evacuate the restaurant in a panic, as the police surround the building and the Joker slips into the night, hooting and cackling."

They reach the street where Trista's hotel was and she looked at the setting sun, now a thin line of orange under a deep ocean sky barely visible through the fog. Tom took a drag and looked into an alley as they passed.  
"Aw hell." He muttered as he turned toward the alley. At the far end there were three or four men standing around someone tied to a chain-link fence. Trista could see the bright orange of a fire between the shadowy figures and it became clear what was happening. Trista felt her stomach twist and she let out a small gasp. Tom was walking toward them and shouting.  
"Hey now! Let that poor sap go! Go on now!" The men turned to them, their faces looking like grinning demons in the firelight. The fire was growing between the man's legs and his soiled pants were beginning to smoke, yet he didn't seem to notice. He just hung there with a blank expression like the man on the subway. The men laughed and shouted a few obscenities at us before deciding we wouldn't be any fun and took off down another back alley, hooting and overturning garbage cans as they went. Tom trotted over and stamped the fire out. Trista looked closer at the man who only stared with dead end eyes. There were headphones in his ears leading to a phone in his pocket but when Trista pulled one out the end looked strange.  
"He's an IND. Irreversible neural damage. Over liberated, you might say." Trista looked at the device at the end of the wire.  
"What is this?" Tommy looked at it and shook his head.  
"A new trend in the junk world. Electrodes that can be plugged into any phone or mobile device and used to stimulate different areas of the brain for euphoric or pain-relieving effect." Trista looked at the electrode and shook her head.  
"How is that possible?" Tom shrugged and sighed.  
"Same way opiates or hallucinogens do it. Stimulating neural connections to release chemicals in the brain. Whether you absorb it through the blood, the mucus membranes, or put a few volts through the right channels, the result is the same; addiction. This is the future of addiction and you can see the results." He begins to loosen the man's bonds, causing one arm to flop down.  
"Neural connections wear out, like veins will, but a vein will come back in time and through a process of rotation, a junkie can keep his habit going for a long time. But neural connections don't come back, and when the addict runs out of brain cells he is in a terrible fucking position." The man was slumped over now, staring at his blistered feet.  
"They turn up the juice or try new areas of contact but they all wear out and all that's left is a lump of clay for a brain." Trista looked away as a dark stain spread between the man's legs.  
"Do they ever come back?" Tom stood and tilted his hat back.  
"They don't come back, won't come back, once they're gone…" He moves his hand through the air like a leaf on the wind. Trista pulled the electrodes until a phone pulled free of the man's pocket. She looked at the electrodes, the Zenon brand was on the wire. She looked at the phone, which was filthy and neglected. The app that was open was something called ECT unlimited. She dialed 911 and told them to send an ambulance to their location. She was told it might be a while, tonight is a busy night for hospitals. She thanked them and hung up, putting the phone into her pocket. Tom looked at her sideways with a fox's grin.  
"You gonna lift that poor sap's phone?" He make a tsk tsk sound and wagged a finger. Trista smirked.  
"Just for research. I'll send it to Gotham General when I'm through." Tom shrugged and they headed back toward the hotel.

The street lights buzzed to light and already the air was filled with the distant howls of emergency vehicles. At the hotel entrance Tom lit another smoke and stood with his hands in his jacket pockets.  
"Well, I guess this is good bye. I had a lovely evening." He held out his hand like a gentlemen and Trista smiled, putting her hand on his. He kissed her hand gently and took off his hat, holding it against his chest.  
"Will you be okay walking back? I can call you a cab." Tommy chuckled and tilted the cigarette up at an angle in his teeth.  
"You know what they called me back in Mexico City? El hombré invisiblé. The invisible man. I walk between the rain drops, in and out of people's lives like a dream you only remember when you have it again. Mad as a hatter, thin as a dime, Ol' Tommy Wades takes nothing but time." Trista laughed and handed him a card and some cash.  
"Give me a call if you want an exposé, this is for the rights to your story. Call it an advance." Tommy held up his hands defensivly.  
"I simply couldn't, my dear." He lifted his hat and as it passed her hand the money and card vanished. He twirled the hat and placed it neatly on his head, giving Trista a wink. Trista watched him saunter down the street with that strange walk of his. She could hear him faintly singing a song about a downtown train as he passed under the rusty orange street lights.


	15. Chapter 15: Maxim Zeus

Chapter 9 – Maxim Zeus

1

The night air was cool and full of smoke. Joker's Night was in full swing in the streets and everywhere black smoke rose like pillars, stained terra cotta by the street lights and fires below. Sirens cried out from every direction and the flashing blue and red twinkled like Christmas lights between the buildings. Against the low hanging smog and smoke, a spot light illuminated the silhouette of a bat. Trista leaned against the window sill in the hotel room, looking out and listening to the news describe the horrors in the streets.

"In what has become a yearly tradition, Joker's Night, named for the infamous terrorist and criminal mastermind, once again turns the streets of our fair city into a warzone." Trista turned the electrode she had taken off the IND over in her hand, studying the design.

"Gotham PD has vowed to put an end to the yearly crime spree and had been making progress until just two years ago, when the tradition seemed to reassert itself. Last year, over 27 people lost their lives and an estimated 178 people were hospitalized. More than 2,8 million dollars in damages to private and state property occurred, breaking the record set just the year before." Somewhere, the popping of gunfire punctuated the statement.

"We are doing everything in our power to protect our city." Trista turned at the sound of Gordon's voice. He was behind a podium, looking to be about 102, his eyes sunken and the lines of his face deeper, even under the spotlights.

"We will be adopting the same zero tolerance policy as last year. If you participate in this event, you will go to jail. The maximum penalty will be applied to any and all individuals arrested during this night for any crimes they commit." They cut to scenes of burning businesses and rioters wearing clown make-up. An image of a skyscraper downtown appeared that had a huge smiley face painted across its front with burning windows where its eyes should have been.

"That was Commissioner Gordon just this morning and the Gotham PD has been in the streets in force. The Batman has also been sighted in the downtown area, helping to apprehend and contain the riot. We here at WKNG News 1 urge our viewers to stay inside and keep your doors and windows locked tonight. Stay safe, and stay vigilant." An ad for life insurance appears and Trista heads over to her laptop.

About an hour later she was reading through a bio on Maxamillian Zenon when she heard a loud pop from outside and the power went out. The sudden darkness and silence jolted her and she had to take a moment to get her bearings. In the city, silence is more disorienting than any loud noise. Trista went to the window and looked out. The street lights were out too, maybe the whole block. She wondered if the power went out at Arkham, but it was no where near this block. There was laughter and shouting down at the street and she shut the window. Trista went back to the door to the room and looked into the hall. The emergency lights had come on and lit the hall in dull yellow spotlights. A few of the other guests were looking out into the hall too, some were chatting about it further down. Trista went back to the window in her room and just listened to the sounds of the city. A flash caught her eye, a small spark from down the street. It was someone flicking a lighter. She went to her bags and searched until she found her binoculars. She looked and saw the flash again and then the flame. The face illuminated as the cigarette was lit and she saw a grinning clown with black eyes and a red mouth. For a moment her heart tightened. It couldn't be him, its just someone dressed up as him. He is locked away, where no one can even talk with him. She watched as the red ember at the end of the cigarette glowed brighter and a puff of smoke billowed out of the silhouette. Then he turned and the glowing dot of the cigarette swung around and shot out of his hand into a nearby building. For a moment nothing happened. Then the building lit up like the power had suddenly returned and the windows exploded out with blast of orange flame. The man had turned away and was walking down the street at a casual pace. Trista went to her door and locked the deadbolt. She sat on her bed listening to the recording of Tommy Wades telling the story of Clayface Lee until the power came back on a few hours later.

The next morning, Trista went down to the lobby to ask if they knew what caused the outage. The clerk shook his head.

"Beats me. One of the bellhops said it was someone who drove their car into a transformer. Maybe some joyriding joker. Serves em right." Trista got herself some coffee and went back up to watch the news to find out if anything else happened that night. 47 fires had been set that night across the city, a new record. Over 68 people were arrested and nearly 62 people were admitted to hospitals for serious injuries. So far the death count was at 18. "Jesus." Trista muttered to herself. That had happened right outside. She wondered if Tommy Wades made it to safety.

Once she'd had enough caffeine to start the day she set about writing the article on Clayface Lee. By the end of the day she had sent everything to her editor and passed out. She was still thinking about Zenon and the man tied to the fence the next morning. The empty look of his eyes. She had seen the eyes of a corpse before, but she had never seen them move. She would be going to Arkham later, but for now she only had the internet to look into. The Zenon brand is the company formally owned by silicon valley pioneer Maximillian Zenon. Max was responsible for many of the innovations and technologies that have become the corner stone of modern life in not only America but all over the world. He was considered the Nikola Tesla of our generation, pushing humanity into the next technological era. Among his many innovations are the lithium battery, the first microchip, the technology responsible for MRIs and CAT scans, the development of wireless connection and power, among others. At the age of 64, he remains one of the most brilliant minds in the world. How and why he descended into madness is known only in the form of rumor and speculation. There was talk of syphilis, an experiment gone wrong, a act of sabotage by a rival, or even early onset Alzheimer's. The only thing we know for sure is that some time in the last twenty years, Maximillian Zenon became reclusive, began spouting radical ideals about the return of Zeus and his connection with him, and began conducting dangerous experiments with electricity. Forming what can only be described as a cult around himself, he turned away from the world of technology and became increasingly isolated and strange. After he was retired from his company by the board of directors, he continued to create devices and technologies he kept to himself and his followers. What these might be also remains a mystery, as they were seized by the government after the raid on his headquarters in Gotham. Even so, many of the devices were leaked to the public and many companies began reverse engineering them for themselves. The Zenon company has failed to stem this intellectual property theft, due to the inventions in question being unpatented and unregistered. One such device was a vest which can absorb the heat put out by the body and convert it into electricity to charge devices and power various things, such as lights or speakers. Other technologies, such as the massively controversial brain electron stimulators. The basic concept was using electrical currents to stimulate certain areas of the brain. The device was a simple pair of electrodes which can be inserted into the ear or adhered to the scalp and plugged into any mobile phone, tablet or computer through the head phone jack. Using a special program created by Zenon, or more specifically the Zeus Cult, signals are sent in varying strengths and patterns to stimulate areas of the brain. This has been shown to have painkilling effect, aid in memory and creativity, and alleviate mental disorders such as depression, schizophrenia, dementia, and bipolar disorder. While this sounds amazing on the surface, the reality is much more complicated. These devices and programs have not been tested and approved by the health department and can have serious side effects and consequences. Already there are thousands of cases of people becoming terminally addicted to the painkilling use of the electrodes, resulting in irreversible neural damage and problems. People have been experiencing unexplained pain and anxiety after prolonged use, and there are a few cases of the devices malfunctioning and lobotomizing the user by delivering an extremely high voltage of electricity. When the FBI raided the infamous Olympus tower in Gotham, they found hundreds of cultists with brain damage and defects.

The cult itself was highly secretive, refusing to give information to outsiders. Even when granted entry into the cult, none of the ideals or rituals were taught to anyone unless they had paid an exorbitant amount of money. Rumors and accusations of abuse, kidnapping, and harassment of members was common, though not often reported. The things inflicted on members trying to leave the cult were far worse. One reporter who attempted to infiltrate the cult was found lobotomized and homeless years later in a different city. Maxamillian had changed his name and appearance. Now referring to himself as Maxim Zeus, he shaved his head ritualistically and had grown out a long beard. His body was covered in what looked like a complex roots or lightning bolts in a deep red and there were what looked like small holes in rows along his scalp and on various places on his body. Close examination revealed them to be metal tubes, like a microphone jack, and he has been seen with wires connected to them. The purpose of these holes can only be speculated on. The man remains a modern mystery.

All the files and records about Zenon had been confiscated by the Zenon Company or locked away by the SCP Corporation. The official stance of the Zenon company was that Maximillian Zenon had stepped down from his position as CEO due to a nervous breakdown. Everything about Zenon's illegal activities and cult were dismissed as a smear campaign by their chief rival, the Macrosoft company. It didn't help that Macrosoft's founder, Gill Bates, was a notorious shyster and dirty business dealer who stole every idea his company ever claimed from Max thanks to a twisted contract Max had signed when he was just starting out at Gill's company. It was only fuel for the constant nerd wars between loyalists of the two companies. The only way she was going to get the info she needed was to gain access to the SCP files, and her meeting with Dr. Adams hadn't gone well. While Adams hadn't said outright she wouldn't put her in contact with SCP corp, she only made vague promises to send them a request. That had been 3 days ago and she was running out of patience.

She was about to fall asleep when the phone in her room rang with a metallic trill. She glanced at the clock which still flashed 12:00 from the power outage on Joker's Night, she had been forgetting to reset it. It had to be around 2 am though. She picked it up and immediately a mumbled voice cursed and shouted in her ear.

"Damn you woman! Don't you ever pick up your phone?" It was her boss, Daniel R. Duke, famous journalist and mad bastard. Many of the people in her field would give a kidney to work for the man who wrote Horror and Hatred in St. Louis and called the former president a dog kicking swine on national television. He was a ruthless drug addict with a twisted sense of honor and a weak sense of self-preservation. To the crooked politicians and lawmakers, he was the mad bull elephant in the room. Trista had met him through her ex-husband and after he read some of her college work, he hired her on the spot. Since then she had been in and out of hotels all around the country doing research for his projects and her own. He had only recently taken an interest in Arkham and the super criminals. Despite their infamy, there was very little information about them to be found, nothing in depth anyways. Even though they can't seem to keep them imprisoned, they seem to be able to keep their stories locked up. Dan knew they'd never let her into Arkham unless Trista looked like a boring, psychology nerd doing a piece for a psychological periodical meant for eggheads and students, so he sent her out to interview serial killers and murderers so she could throw together a few decent articles and get her ready to talk with the super criminals. Cognition magazine was merely an elaborate front in order to get inside Arkham and get to the real story on the super criminals. Putting bogus copies in the newsstands and waiting rooms of psychiatrists had been a chore, but it worked. Her assignment was simply to gather information on the inmates of Arkham, get to the truth about these anomalies. What he planned to do with these articles, Trista had no idea. He was in contact with many magazines and papers from his glory days so he might be getting bids from them. He might just compile them into a book, a nice coffee table edition. None of that was Trista's concern, in the end. The job was the job.

"Do you have any idea what time it is? Where are you calling from?" Trista's voice was husky from sleep and she was in no mood for her employer's antics. In addition to being one of the best writers of a generation, Dan Duke was also notoriously eccentric and bizarre. Probably due to the massive amount of drugs and alcohol he had been consuming regularly since the 60's. He was a noted conspiracy theorist and whistle blower, the enemy of every political fat cat and crooker dealer, including the US government. Trista respected the man immensely and jumped at the chance to work with him, but eccentricity is more fun to watch, than to deal with and his wild moods and tangents got old fast with her.

"Never mind that. You're a professional journalist god dammit! There's only one time for our kind, time for action! Now scrub the sleep out of your ears and tell me why the hell you're dragging your feet on getting access at Arkham?" Trista pinched the bridge of her nose and tried to pull her mind back from the calm seas of sleep.

"I'm trying. The SCP corporation won't return my calls and Brass-balls Adams won't put me in touch with them."

"Damn her oily hide!" He shouted, making her hold the phone away from her ear. "That hard-bitten steer thinks she can stand in the way of freedom of the press? I won't stand for this! This means war! I'm a doctor of journalism! I will march right into that office and-" Trista cut him off.

"You'll do no such thing! You stay out of Gotham! This is my job!" He started muttering something about a plane ticket and Trista stood up.

"Do not get on that plane! I can handle this, dammit!" He had hung up before any of it reached his end of the line. Trista slammed the phone down and took a deep breath. If she wanted to keep him from barging in and throwing spanners into her works, she would have to crack Adams herself and first thing in the morning. It was going to be very close.

At first light, Trista pushed through the doors of Arkham. The lobby was as quiet and still as a morgue, the only sound was the gentle muzak coming from the speakers. She swiped her badge and walked into the white tile halls, going over her strategy in her head. It was a terrible strain, but her mind often proved itself more adept and cunning during times of great stress. She tried to harness that energy as she moved toward the office of Dr. Ruth Adams. There was a crowd of people blocking the path to Adams' office. Her first thought was horror, some monster had escaped and cornered her in the office that night. As she got closer she saw Hilleman and he looked back at her, his eyes wide with horror.

"Trista! Jesus, you won't believe this."

"Believe what?" She said numbly, trying to see past the onlookers. The door to Adams' office was closed. No EMTs with stretchers. No police tape. Then she heard it. A booming voice from behind the closed door and the high shriek of a woman giving someone a deadly tongue lashing. She knew it before she heard anything intelligible, before Hilleman said something about some crazy man who came barging into Adams' office and spewing obscenities and demands. Impossible. There was no way he had gotten here so fast. This was impossible. Trista was shoving people aside and marching to the door in a blind fury. She heard Hilleman say something about waiting for the police as she put her hand on the knob.

"You scurvy, dried-up, harpy! You put that goddamn book down and start making phone calls or I will bring the wrath of the free press down on you like a storm!" There was no doubt now. Trista opened the door.

The scene before her was too absurd to register for anyone who hadn't known Daniel Duke personally. He crouched like a besieged trencherman behind the back of an armchair, wearing an absurd trucker hat with a cartoon dog on the front. His eyes were wide and crazed behind huge orange tinted aviator glasses. He wore Bermuda shorts with horrible green socks in white loafers and his shirt was a sickening salmon colored polo with brown stains down the front. Dr. Adams was poised with a rather thick edition of some ancient tome by Sigmund Freud in one hand, like a quarterback about to throw the game winning pass. They both stared at Trista as if she had interrupted something intimate.

"You." Adams said in a hateful growl.

"You sent this lunatic after me." Her face was approaching a plum color and the birth mark or old scar on her forehead looked like blotters ink.

"At last!" Daniel roared. "Reinforcements! We'll hit her from two sides! A classic pincer maneuver." Trista felt the adrenalin in her brain like red fire.

"Security has no doubt been notified. You will BOTH be removed from here and barred indefinitely." Duke poked his head over the chair back.

"You do and it will be the last mistake you ever make!" Trista felt distant, like watching a television show or a sporting event.

"Now you listen to me, you heartless stygian succubus! I came here with a reasonable request and complaint. I am a doctor of journalism! I am here representing the free press and constitution of the United States of America. If you think you can sandbag a free agent of truth, justice, and the American way, I will become a pox on your house. I am Ahab! This place will become my personal white whale! I will harpoon this establishment with lawsuits and bad press until it floats belly up to be gutted for scrimshaw and ambergris! I will use every ounce of energy and political connections to have this place irrevocably clogged until the next solar eclipse! You have a simple choice here. Give in to our reasonable demands, or be crushed under the weight of your own hubris!" Adams snarled and pulled the book back for the winning play.

"How dare you come in here and demand anything! I will not be bullied and threatened by an unhinged bastard and his bitch!"

"That's enough!" Trista barked, bringing silence to the room like a falling curtain.

"This is ridiculous! You both need to calm the fuck down!" They both stared at Trista as if she had suddenly appeared in the room in a puff of smoke and a sequined leotard.

"You!" Trista pointed a finger at Duke who recoiled from her gaze like beaten dog.

"Get the fuck out of here before you end up in the hospital or jail!" He looked at her surprised for a moment before turning to look at Adams, who looked like a cow on the tracks of an oncoming train. He winked and backed out of the office, anticipating a final attack. They were alone. For a moment they just stared at each other.

"There are two things you need to know about that man. One, I am NOT his bitch, he is my boss. I did not send him here, I didn't even want him in the same city. He came here because I haven't been able to continue my work because of you. And two, he is every bit as crazy as he is honest. He WILL choke this place with litigation and lawyers if I can't convince him not to, and I can't convince him not to unless I get a call from the SCP corporation about getting me more access. He was once a journalist himself and was called Daniel the Duke of Bastards by being uncompromising and reckless. He has more than enough infamy and spite to make good on all his threats." Adams stared at her, her face stony and blank. Trista softened a bit.

"Please." Adams lowered the book and seemed to recompose herself.

Outside the office, Dan was laughing and talking with the crowd of onlookers that had gathered. When he saw Trista, he threw out his arms and shouted.

"There she is! Did you get it? Did you crack the old stone?" Trista reeled back and decked him in the ear. He jumped back with a surprised bark and gripped his ear.

"Christ woman! Why the ear?!" Trista just scowled.

"That is for butting into my project, and for that god awful outfit! What, did you dress with your eyes closed?! Fuck!" He looked at her, still wincing and holding his ear. He looked down at his clothes and wiped at the brown stain fruitlessly.

"But the contact? Did you get it?" Trista rolled her eyes and just looked at him. He smiled and pumped his fist in the air.

"Well done! You always were the best at being Good Cop." Trista rolled her eyes and shook her hand, which was throbbing slightly. Hilleman was flushed and could only stare at her in wonder.

"That was the sexiest thing I've ever witnessed." Her scowl was broken by a small smile for a moment.

"Oh yes, almost forgot." Dan was moving toward the office again and everyone recoiled as if he had pulled the pin on a grenade.

"Don't you dare!" Trista shouted but he had already disappeared inside. They waited. Trista almost expected to hear the ticking of a time bomb. The window of the office exploded as a book sailed through and landed hard on the tile. Dan was hurrying out of the office like a soldier under enemy fire, a huge grin on his face. As they hurried out Trista asked what he said to her.

"Not much." He shrugged. "Just asked her out to dinner." Trista stopped and Daniel Duke walked out of the asylum, humming a tune.

2

Dan had offered to take her out to lunch and Trista decided she may as well accept it. They went to a crab shack down by the waterfront that had a sign out front promising that all seafood had been imported and not caught fresh anywhere near Gotham. Probably a requirement by the health code. Dan ordered a whole bottle of Wild Turkey for the table and Trista watched as he took a small box out the size of a cigarette box. He turned it over and flipped a small door on the corner, like the opening of a tic tac container. On the lid was a neat pile of white powder which he proceeded to sniff. Trista looked around but no one had noticed.

"I thought you quit that stuff." Dan grinned and lit a cigarette.

"It's a holiday. Eisenhower's birthday." She shook her head.

"You want a beer?" Trista rolled her eyes and declined.

"How bout a hit of acid?" She recoiled.

"Jesus, Dan. This is a public place. This isn't the 70's. You can't broadcast that kind of stuff." Dan waved her off.

"Like hell I can't. This is America, and more importantly Gotham. Hell, everything's legal in Gotham. You know that. Besides, I was only joking. I'd never give you LSD again, not after last time." Trista sat up, alarmed.

"What last time? I've never taken that stuff!" Dan shook his head with a smile.

"Don't be so obtuse. You don't remember taking it, but you did. After that scum sucker Martin left you for good. I knew that bastard was a no good pile of steaming albino warts. You're better off! Honestly. Who marries a man named Martin Martin?" Trista felt her face redden and she grit her teeth.

"He was the one who introduced us, if that pharmacy dumpster you call a brain can remember. Actually, that might prove you right." She was already on edge, but now she was dangling.

"Couldn't believe Marty had scored a winner like you. Some bastards have all the luck. Anyways, you were spiraling into depression. A useless wreck. More importantly you weren't getting any work done. I thought it may jump start that brain of yours, get it back in gear." Trista growled through her teeth.

"I can't thank you enough, Duke." He laughed.

"That stuff got right on top of you. You turned into a goddamned werewolf! You went wild in the streets and brought a saxophone player from the corner up to your room. You then proceeded to fuck his brains out, consume his entire day's worth of tips, and finally he ran out of the building screaming after you tried to sodomize him with a rubber fist you had inexplicably acquired that night." Trista had no words. Her language center had been temporarily shut down as her brain was flooded with shock and rage. Dan seemed to realize the coming storm and said,

"You let go, is what happened. After years in a loveless marriage and a week in depression, you finally let yourself out. And after that, you were writing again." Trista felt her senses return. He was right, she had been trapped in her marriage to Martin, but when he left her it completely blindsided her. It was like wishing for something every day out of spite and selfishness and then having it come true. You can't feel good about it because you feel bad about it. She had been depressed and useless. She couldn't remember how she came out of it, just that she woke up one day and felt like herself again. She was finding it hard to stay mad at him.

They brought the food and Trista asked, "Why in god's name did you ask Dr. Adams out? You know bestiality is illegal in this state, right?" Dan grinned.

"I have a weakness for crazy women like that. Brains and brawn. You're mother was like that." Trista groaned. She hated talking about her mother.

"Don't you dare go into your theories about me being your illegitimate child! I know you used to romp with her in the 70's, but she would have told me if I was fathered by a lunatic. Maybe she thought it might undermine her control over me if I knew my real father was a famous asshole." Dan seemed hurt by this. He gave her a sad smile.

"You really hate her, don't you?" Trista rolled her eyes.

"We're not having this discussion." Dan took a drink and looked at her.

"You know, women like her are more vulnerable than you think. They put up a tough front and they antagonize everyone, but its because they prefer being hated to being pitied. Even with someone they love, especially with someone they love. Someone who matters." Trista was taken aback by this.

"Which part of 'we are not having this discussion' do you not understand?" He shrugged.

"I guess everything before 'having'."

Trista tried to keep her mind on her work.

"Don't think you can distract me from asking what the hell you think you are doing here."

"Getting the job done." He muttered.

"Getting MY job done. You almost blew the whole thing with that brawl you had with Adams." He slammed his fist on the table.

"That rotten hellcat would have strung you along for weeks! We needed access! Time is of the essence in journalism."

"Why?" Trista asked, suspicion dawning on her. "What's really going on here? This isn't just a series of articles on super criminals is it?" He looked around as if he suspected they were being watched.

"For you? Yes. For me? That is only the roof of the thing." He spoke in a low mutter.

"The freaks at Arkham are the key to the whole thing, the key to the SCP Corporation." Trista leaned forward on her elbows.

"Is this another of your conspiracy theories?" He looked around again before crushing his cigarette out.

"I know I dabble in conspiracy theory as a hobby, but this isn't some crack pot fantasy about aliens or shadow governments. This one is rock solid. This is the big one." Trista crossed her arms with a frown.

"So when were you going to let me in on this secret mission?" He refilled his drink and took a swig.

"I was going to bring you in when you got close enough to SCP. This is an ominous mission, with overtones of extreme personal danger here. Why the hell do you think I've been here for two weeks?" He didn't seem to realize he said it but Trista almost stood up.

"Two weeks? What the-?" He put his hands up.

"Now, now! I had to come. After that swine Nigma hacked our system, I had to be sure he didn't find anything about it. He could have blown the whole thing, or blackmailed us. I had to make sure the bastard got put on ice and all credibility he had was hamstringed." Trista slumped back, unable to cope with what she was hearing.

"So you've been watching me for two weeks?"

"Hell no!" He snarled. "I've been working! Your assignment is just a moon. My work is the fucking planet! I won't be interfering in your work anymore. Now that that banshee Adams has let us into the SCP, my work can continue. As will yours." Trista rubbed her forehead, exhausted by stress.

"So what the hell have I been writing these things for? Some elaborate cover?" Dan sighed and took another drink.

"Of course not. You are doing this for YOU. Because you are a writer, a damn good one, and because you are a professional. When this is done you'll have two or three books out of it and a bright future." Trista looked at him sideways.

"What about your 'fucking planet' of a project? You don't think it might eclipse my little moon?" He waved her off.

"You won't be a part of it and when it hits, if everything comes up aces, I won't either. This has to be my last report. Once this is out, I'm either a stranger in a strange land, or a dead man." Trista was surprised at this.

"This is serious, isn't it?" He looked around again and nodded slightly. The bill came and Trista looked expectantly at him. He tossed the last of his drink back and stood.

"I'll have my assistant take care of it." Trista looked around.

"Assistant?"

"You." He said, pointing a finger. "You take care of it."

"You said you would buy lunch!" She shouted indignantly.

"I am buying this lunch! Where do you think your money comes from? Put it on the expense account and call me a fucking cab! I need acid." Trista made a rude gesture as he turned away and went to pay the bill.

They took a cab and Dan directed the driver to his place. They pulled up in front of a decrepit brownstone on the east end.

"This place has YOU written all over it." Trista quipped.

"Called up an old friend, let me rent a room at his place. SOME of us can't afford fancy hotels every damn night." They went up a flight of graffiti covered stairs and came to a door with the word NOONE carved into it with a pocket knife. Dan gave the door a quick rabbit punch and shouted.

"Let me in you old faggot! This is the police! If I hear a toilet flush we'll bust down this door and send you in after whatever dope you ditched!" A rusty familiar voice grumbled from the behind the door.

"I got nothin worth takin but my life, and I warn you I have a strict no refunds policy." There was a fumbling of locks and the door opened. Tommy Wades stood there wearing a ratty bathrobe decorated in coffee mugs and cigarette burns, cigarettes rolled into his hair like curlers. They both laugh and hug.

"Hello again, fair lady." He said to her with a nod and a wink.

"Glad to see you made it home okay." Trista said and he welcomed them inside.

The inside looked like a cross between a thrift store and a condemned brothel. A puke green chaise lounge sat at the far end of the living room, the wall paper was peeling and missing in places, strange collections of junk covered every shelf. The ceiling was painted with wild colors and shapes in a wheel pattern. Tom motioned to it.

"Pops Picasso painted that when he was staying here and couldn't afford the rent." Trista gawked.

"It must be worth a fortune!" Tommy chuckled.

"Not many people looking to hang a ceiling in their gallery. I'd rather he'd paid the rent." Dan went into his room and began throwing things, grumbling to himself. Tom offered Trista coffee and she accepted. He handed her a pink mug that said 'I hate it here' in glitter on the side.

"Seeing as you're here, Danny must have brought you into his little project." Trista shrugged.

"He hasn't told me much yet. How do you know Daniel?" Tommy grinned.

"Me and the Duke go way back. He was the one who put me onto writing. He offered to rent a room in my parent's old place and I said he could, so long as he kept his crimes to himself and didn't bring the fuzz down on us. He was the one who sent me out to find you when you hit a dead end on Clayface Lee. Told me to keep an eye out for a pretty young writer with a tape recorder and a devil may care attitude. Bet you thought it was coincidence, eh?" Daniel came back out with a small shaving kit and sat on the chaise lounge.

"There are no such thing as coincidences in journalism! Okay, kiddies. Story time." He opened the kit, revealing a recording device with a microphone that looked like a .357 with a speaker jammed in its barrel, he turned on a radio, voices boomed out, some kind of talk show, and he motioned for us to lean in close.

"Can't be too careful. The walls in Gotham have ears." Tommy chortled.

"In some places they have more than that." He winked at Trista who covered her smile with the coffee mug.

"I hate this goddamned city! Every time I come to Gotham, I leave with scars. This place needs to be blasted to dust and salted. But there is one thing I hate more than Gotham." Trista rolled her eyes.

"Oh please! Not the Batman again."

"The goddamn Batman!" He snarled at her.

"So which theory are you going with this time? That he's actually Bruce Wayne, who is only pretending to be paralyzed from the waist down? Or maybe its that you think he is a secret government agent? A CIA super soldier project? Stop me if I guess it." Dan lit a cigarette and glared at her.

"Your mockery will only make it harder to jam that foot in your mouth after it all comes out." Trista threw her hands up.

"What is your problem with him? He fights crime, protects the people from lunatics like Croc and the Joker. This city loves him." Dan just shook his head.

"You poor child. You haven't been around as long as I have. I know a fascist enforcer when I see one. All he does is maintain the status quo, keep the people under control. If he didn't have freaks like the ones in Arkham to busy himself with, he'd be harassing debtors and poor people just like any other cop, except HE isn't accountable for his actions. These people allow him to pulverize criminals at will because he is only a threat to 'bad people'. What would they do if he started killing criminals instead of beating them into submission? What would they do if he started targeting potential criminals, or people who's only crimes are questioning the powers that be? Could we stop him? Could we vote him out of office or protest at his head quarters? Could we press charges and have him imprisoned? He is a one man swat team who could cripple any attempts and put his power in check and all these people just ASSUME he is altruistic? Get a grip, man!" Trista shook her head and looked at Tommy, who just gave her a helpless shrug.

Trista leaned her chin on her hand and gave him a bored expression.

"So what is it you have on him?" Daniel looked at her a moment.

"There is a connection between him, the SCP corporation, Wayne Corp, and the CIA. I was contacted by an anonymous source who told me as much. According to him or her, the Batman is a covert CIA agent designed to control the criminal population and inspire the civilians to obey the law. Think of it! A law enforcement agent posing as a vigilante, taking down mob bosses and terrorists using secret technology and black ops tactics, adopting a terrifying image and building a mythos around himself, and patrolling the city in the shadows, waiting to pounce on unsuspecting criminals like a panther. A terrorist who targets terrorists. You think the US government would allow one of its own citizens to uphold the law if he wasn't under their thumb? Think about it. Police have lost all credibility after the protests of the 60's and 70's, the race riots, beating and shooting the poor, they no longer represent justice in America, they only represent the power of the government. They can't have a cop dress up in armor and carry advanced weaponry, the people wouldn't have it. Seeing armored cops in the streets brings up bad memories of storm troopers and fascist goon squads. They can't have a CIA agent working openly within the country, its against the regulations WE voted into place to keep them in check. And besides, anyone with a name and an address can be targeted or corrupted. It had to be someone anonymous, a civilian, someone who couldn't be bought, bullied, or arrested. Someone the government could disown the minute things went south." Trista had heard all this before.

"So who is the Batman?" Dan flicked his cigarette out of a broken window.

"Don't know for sure. Could be several people now. The only one I've been able to nail down is Bruce Wayne, but the man was crippled by mafia hit men in the 60's. I checked him out, it was a bullet to the spine. Irreversible. I figure they found someone else to take up the mantle, maybe several, incase one of them catches a bullet again. Invisible people. No records or identification. Wayne is still involved, but to what capacity, I aim to find out." Tommy crossed his legs primly and said,

"Wonder why they had Wayne at all if he was so obvious? Rich guy, parents murdered by mugger at a young age, has more money than the vatican and a grudge against crooks. Wouldn't take an ace detective to put that together." Daniel shook his head. "That's what made him a perfect prototype. Someone with the resources and motive to become the Batman. They probably came to him as a young man and made him an offer, get back at the people who offed your folks, we'll train you, arm you, and feed you intel so you can go out and put the boots to em for Uncle Sam. Become a hero to the people of Gotham. I'll bet he jumped at the chance. Problem was he was too perfect. The mob figured him out within a few years and finally one of their goons got a lucky shot. It must have ripped him up inside, all that training and fighting gone in an instant, like pulling a fuse. I bet they kept him on the team out of pity for the poor bastard."

Trista leaned over and clicked off the radio. "Alright I think we've covered that, I have to get back to my article." Tom pulled a cigarette out of one of the curls in his hair and lit it. "Who's the lucky man?" Trista turned to him, ignoring Daniel. "Maxim Zeus." Tommy's eyebrows went up. "Maxie Zeus! Our very own Deus Ex Hominum." Dan grumbled under his breath. "Slimy cultist bastard with a god complex. Like we don't have enough of those here. Be careful what you say around his people. They are known to be unstable and fiercely loyal." Trista grinned without much humor. "I'm sure Batman will protect me." He grunted. "Don't bet on it." Trista rolled her eyes and looked at her watch before standing up. "Well, I'll leave you to your 'ominous' mission then. I'm sure you'll both be very busy getting sized for tin foil hats and painting the windows black. I have to get back to work on real stories. Tommy, good to see you again." Tommy tipped his head to her with a smile. "Don't think I won't hold you to your deadlines because of this! I want my article!" Trista turned around and flipped him a middle finger before closing the door behind her.

When Trista got back to her hotel, her phone was ringing. Thinking it might be Daniel, she huffed and stomped over to it. "Trista Martin?" A voice came over the line, a gruff energetic voice, like a used car salesman. "Speaking." "This is Dr. Deegan with the SCP Corporation, I understand you are seeking access to restricted files. Will you be available to meet with me to discuss the matter?" Trista was taken by surprise. She wasn't expecting a response this quick. Something about him calling just as she was walking in made her uneasy. It was probably all that conspiracy garbage from Dan. "Yes, of course." She said, hoping she didn't sound too excited. "Fantastic. Come to Arkham later today, I've been anxious to met you." The unease swelled inside her but she ignored it. This might open new doors for her. There was no time for paranoia.

Dr. John Deegan met Trista in the waiting room of Arkham. He was wearing a white lab coat with a simple brown vest and tie. His hair was white and slicked back close to the scalp, the way old time press boys slicked it back with pomade. He wore thick glasses which were tinted black and hid his eyes. He smiled a wide toothy smile as Trista approached and his teeth were as perfect as a toothpaste ad.

"Trista Martin! At last we meet. I have been hearing good things about you my dear." He held out his hand and Trista returned the gesture. He grabbed her hand in both of his and shook it vigorously, an awkward surprise.

"Its nice to meet you as well, Dr. Deegan. I hope you haven't been hearing too much about me." He barked a laugh which made a few people I the room jump.

"You've become something of a curiosity here at Arkham. When I heard you were seeking access to the SCP files and patients, I knew we had to meet. Dr. Adams wanted to keep you for herself but I wouldn't hear of it." They began walking as he talked and Trista hardly noticed. He had a way of holding your attention like a hypnotist and it made Trista uneasy.

"I've read your articles. Fascinating! Such insight, and the way you have been able to communicate with these notoriously uncooperative type patients is nothing short of extraordinary. I think you and I share many of the same gifts. A dedication to pure science and a fixation on the criminal mind. I can't tell you how interested I am in watching you work." They walked past Dr. Adam's office and she shot Trista a disapproving look as they did. They came to the door leading to the new ward and Dr. Deegan placed his palm on a pad, causing a sharp beep and the sound of a lock turning. The logo for the SCP corporation was on everything. The halls here were much more modern, it was like they had stepped through a portal into a science fiction world. The doors they passed were equipped with television screens showing the interior of the rooms. Many of them were empty but she could see figures within a few and wondered who they might be. They came to an office and Strange held the door for her as she walked in. The office was nearly empty, except for a metal desk and chair. A laptop sat folded to one side and an intercom speaker and phone sat on the other. Deegan went over and reached into small hole in the wall. He pulled and the wall seemed to be folding out into a chair, which he offered to Trista.

"Do forgive my Spartan dwelling here. Don't get many people in here unfortunately. Most of my time is spent in the labs and interview rooms. Now then." He sat behind the desk and steepled his fingers, a wide smile still on his face.

"You wish to have access to our patients, yes? I trust you already know security, particularly around these eccentric criminals, has been taken on by the SCP Corporation, a private security and research company, which I represent. We specialize in studying, containing, and processing the criminally insane. S-C-P. After the riot here and the grizzly consequences, it became clear that the security at Arkham was not prepared for individuals of this nature. This is why we have been called in. We provide excellent care to our patients as well as thorough study and therapy when possible. We have given invaluable information to law enforcement agencies, including the CIA and FBI, on the nature and mentality of this unique criminal phenomenon " He slid a pamphlet across the desk to her.

"You'll find everything you need to know about the SCP Corporation in here. Now that the formalities are out of the way, we would like to offer you a deal, in exchange for access." Trista tilted back as though smelling something rotten.

"So this is their game, eh? Have all the access you want as long as we can control what it is you publish about us." He chuckled heartily and shook his head.

"My dear, you are getting ahead of me. We have no intention of manipulating your journalistic integrity. Now as I was saying before I was so charmingly interrupted but my learned colleague." There was a small flash of contempt and belittlement in his voice, not unlike what she would expect from Dr. Adams, yet this was deeper. Almost menacing.

"We will allow access within reason to patients and files, in exchange we merely wish to keep any and all findings and research you collect for our files. You will be given full credit of course and though we do not intend to publish them, they will be viewed by law enforcement agencies and psychologists for years to come. This may bring you some very good attention, yes?" Trista relaxed a bit, though still uneasy.

"That sounds more than fair, Dr. Deegan." He clapped his hands together, making her jump a little.

"Good, very good. I have a simple contract here for you, and you will need to place your hand here," He removed a sheet from his desk drawer and a large flat black square. "For your hand print access." Trista looked over the contract she took her phone out and snapped a photo of it, something she often did when presented with a contract. She signed her name and placed her hand on the black square. A red dot appeared at the bottom, then a loud beep and the light turned green.

"Well done. A password and access code will be sent to your primary email and will be active within the hour. Now, if you don't mind me asking, whom do you have in mind for your next subject." Dr. Deegan's eyes lit up with interest and Trista hesitated only a moment. "I want to explore Maximillian Zenon." He clapped his hands again. "Excellent! He is a fascinating case. I think you'll see we have made a lot of progress ourselves with him, yet he still remains quite the enigma." Trista nodded thoughtfully and stood to leave. "I suppose I should get to work then."

Trista didn't know where to begin. After the obstructing stumbling block that was Dr. Ruth Adams, having free access to not only patient files but the patients themselves was a little like finding yourself out in the world after years in prison. Her password worked for almost everything, though she noticed the files had a few black bars over certain portions of the information. When she tried to remove them it required a higher access level. There were more than a few files locked in a similar fashion but the information available was more than enough for her. The file on Zenon had both the police and patient records and Trista copied the numbers she would need to start. Even though a lot of the information on Zenon's background and crimes were here, she preferred to gather her information herself.

The Temple of the Divine Spark was still in operation, although the main headquarters in Gotham has been shut down. The one running the operation in Zenon's absence is Derick Rodham. Getting an interview with him is notoriously difficult. All the higher ups in the Temple are inaccessible to the public and even the lower levels of the cult. The headquarters in Gotham was actually a high rise apartment complex where the members of the cult lived in isolation. They had their own schools, stores, gyms, and theaters. This is, of course, one of the requirements of any cult. Isolation from outsiders, make sure everyone around has the same beliefs, keep any dissenting opinions out. Access to the leaders is restricted to sermons and ceremonies. Make sure they don't see them as people with flaws and faults like their own. Anyone within the temple who would know anything worthwhile wouldn't talk with an outsider, even if they claimed to be impartial or even sympathetic. Secrecy and mystery are the key to any religion, especially a new one. Let them think about it too long and they sober up, their rationale starts to come back. Tell it to an outsider without the proper build up and salesmanship and it all sounds ridiculous. You have to keep dazzling them with new performances or instill enough fear in them that they wouldn't dare look away.

Trista was not a fan of religion, to say the least. Her own parents were the mildly religious types. They treated church as a community center, a place to get to know the neighbors and gossip. They didn't even own a bible. Church had the same importance to them as a book club or a favorite bar. They didn't even make Trista go. It was an elective activity like joining a soccer team. You'd think such a soft approach would allow her to come into the religion on her own and really embrace it. All she saw in those churches were old people chanting and chatting, waiting to die, and little kids trying not to scream from boredom. Trista supposed some people needed religion the way some people need inhalers or allergy medicine. She just didn't require it to live her life. Maybe if religions understood this instead of trying to force it on other people because they think that if THEY have to have it, everyone else has to have it and they either don't know they need it, or they are suffering in silence out of pride or delusion.

Anyone who broke away from the Temple had to go into hiding or risk being harassed or even killed by other members. This was something everyone in the upper levels of the cult expects. Any member who leaves the Temple has turned their back on them and is considered a traitor and an enemy. There were TODS in many major cities, though they are the most prominent in Gotham. Trista took a bus downtown and found the former headquarters of the Temple of the Divine Spark. It was still in use as a church and business hub, but it no longer housed members and high level administrators. According to their website, which contained only the most bland and inoffensive ideals and information, they were establishing a new headquarters in Los Angeles. It has been 5 years since Zenon was sent to Arkham, and the TODS seem to be trying to be more open and appealing to the public. A table has been set out in front of Olympus Tower with a large banner saying 'Temple of the Divine Spark: You CAN be HAPPY!' Several salesman types sat smiling behind the table. Trista took a pamphlet and looked up at the tower. There had been an increase in homeless people all over the country. Many of them having severe mental problems and defects. These were not your typical transients. Before they turned up on the streets, many of them had normal lives and childhoods. The only connection between them was an interest in the Temple. When questioned about this, the temple denies they were ever members, even showing their records as proof. Yet every case had n undeniable pattern. They showed interest in the Temple, they told their friends and family they were joining, and then nothing until they turned up on the streets, often in different parts of the country. And these were just the cases they've been able to identify. They all show signs of electric burns around the cranium, and they all have little to no memory of their former lives or the Temple. We have no idea what happened to these people or why.

Richard Stedman was the only ex-member of the TODS that hadn't been on every news outlet or published any books on it, this was what made him interesting to Trista. The anonymous interviews and ghost written books by the other ex-members were dubious as best and didn't really meet the standard Trista held her sources to. Richard was different. He hadn't changed his name or gone into witness protection, in fact he hadn't been involved in the case against the TODS. He might be the only one who has an unbiased opinion. He lived out of state so she had to take a plane down to Tennessee. Stepping off the plane was the first step outside of Gotham in months. It felt like stepping out of a cold dark room and into a bright and sunny day. It wasn't even sunny but it felt warm and inviting compared to Gotham.

She met Richard at his home in Nashville. He was younger than Trista by a couple years and stood bout a foot taller than her. He had a long neck and a sandy colored goatee, black and white plaid dress shirt and slacks. He looked like someone's IT guy.

"I want to apologize in advance if my opinion of the Temple isn't as dramatic as you might hope. I've been told my interviews were unusably boring for most media outlets." Trista smiled as she set out the recorder.

"That's what I was hoping for actually. You're the only ex-member that hasn't gone into hiding or released a tell-all book about it. I want an honest opinion of what it was like, and more specifically, what Zenon was like." He seemed relieved at that and he offered her coffee before beginning.

"I don't remember joining the Temple, it just felt like I'd been there all my life. It was every tech boy's fantasy. Access to the best computers and devices, game rooms, every kind of service or entertainment was there. Its not like people think, we weren't trapped there, we could go out anytime, we just didn't want to. These other ex-members, the things they said about the Temple were exaggerations and dramatizations. They said it because the media would believe it, because it was what society wanted to hear about the Temple. We have learned to expect any new religion or organization to be a dangerous cult, they were just giving them what they expected so they could sell their story. Everything we could ever want was provided. We weren't forced to do anything, but we were expected to learn. Chemistry, physics, trigonometry, programing, engineering. We were all expected to study and contemplate electricity both scientifically and philosophically. That was the main focus. That was what Zenon called Zeus."

"The basic hierarchy was three divisions. In the first and broadest, you had the craftsmen. These were lower level members and were responsible for labor, maintenance, and paperwork. Believe it or not, they are the only level who receives salaries. The two higher levels are completely supported by the craftsman level. The next level is the Guardians. They provide security, law enforcement, and safety. They were the ones going toe to toe with the Batman and the cops when they raided. They had these electro-stimulators that built muscles in their sleep so they were all in top physical condition. I've seen them do incredible things, impossible things. The highest level are the Philosophers. They were the minds behind everything. All art, writing, poetry, and lectures were given by them. They were the poorest members in the temple, but they were held in the highest regard. These men were mathematicians, quantum physicists, philosophers. They are modern day Socrates', Leonardo Davincis, Michaelangelos. They use cranial stimulators and brainwave manipulation to raise their IQs to astronomical levels."

"I know this all sounds amazing, but it all comes with a price, and that price is the human sacrifices." Trista leaned back, surprised.

"Human sacrifices?" Richard nodded.

"Its not what you think. These were volunteers for human experimentation. They ran a lottery to choose their subjects, unless someone volunteered for it. These were considered the most sacred members, those who sacrificed for the greater good. They allowed for the development and improvement of all the incredible technologies developed. Mind enhancement, body modification, disease treatment, memory alteration. These were the tools that allowed them to rise above the outside world. It was the memory alteration that finally brought it home to me. I realized I had no memory before being in the Temple, I began to wonder. If they can alter someone's mind, they can justify anything. How did I know I came to them willingly? That I hadn't objected to it? They told me it was always voluntary, but I only had their word on it. For all I knew, they strapped me down, kicking and screaming. That was when I drifted away."

He looked depressed as he said it. "I got it into my head that they were manipulating me, everything they said became suspicious. Eventually I packed my things, grabbed a few files I thought might give me leverage, and ran. I knew I wasn't the first to run. They told us about them and that they were traitors and should be ignored. When I went to the government for help I was contacted by the press within hours. They wanted the full story, the horrors I went through, how I escaped. They wanted an epic drama. They offered money and shelter so I took it, on the condition that they find my real parents and help me discover who I was before. They loved the idea. I could see the hunger in them, the need for a compelling story and I started to understand the exaggerations of the others. When you're alone and frightened in a world of strangers, you do and say what ever gets you friendship or money. I had this vision of my real family. Good natured father, probably builds model ships as a hobby, loving mother who taught school children before retiring early. Maybe even brothers and sisters. Do you know what I found?" Trista shook her head, expecting the worst.

"My father was killed in a drug deal gone bad 9 years earlier, and my mother had been in prison for 6 years after making mother daughter porn with my little sister." Trista's mouth fell open.

"I was in the foster system before I came to the Temple. The records show I moved from home to home, sometimes twice in a single month. I was violent, crude, and dangerous. I had been doing drugs heavily. I was heading for prison or an early grave. The Temple changed all that. They gave me a clean slate, removed unacceptable traumas from my past so I could make a new future. I'm healthy, happy, I'll be applying for Stanford this year, majoring in engineering. I have an amazing life now, thanks to the Temple." Trista shook her head, amazed.

"So why not go back?" He sighed and looked away.

"They wouldn't let me. I had turned my back on them and broke a bond of trust. They said I was free to live in peace outside the temple, but that I would never be accepted back." Trista sat back in her chair. This was not what she had been expecting. From what it sounds like, this cult is doing great things for people. Can all the things said about it in the media be lies?

"Excuse me a moment, I have to make a call." He nodded and watched her go into the next room.

Trista felt strange calling Daniel, but something about this wasn't right. Could they be wrong about this cult? She needed a sobering voice, a cynical smack to the head.

"Speak!" His voice came from a distance like he was shouting at the phone from across the room.

"Dan, its me. I'm interviewing that ex-member of the Zeus cult." Crashes and bangs from the other end.

"What? Do you miss me? What the hell do you want?!" Trista felt her anger clear her mind a bit.

"It sounds like we might be wrong about the cult, like maybe what the media told everyone about it was wrong. He seems genuine about it and they won't let him back in so he might be telling the truth." More crashes and his voice suddenly boomed directly into the phone.

"GET A GRIP ON YOURSELF, FOOL! Don't take any guff from that swine! You think that drone is unbiased? That he has nothing to do with them anymore? Lies! He's a martyr!" Trista looked over at the doorway, he was still sitting, quiet and content.

"What are you talking about?"

"A Martyr. Someone deliberately cut off from the cult and sent into the outside world to talk it up. The smiling heads outside with pamphlets and handshakes are for the ignorant masses, martyrs target the sceptics and academics. They appear unbiased because they left the group, but they speak favorably of it to make egg heads like you suspend your disbelief." Trista thought about it a moment. Was this just Dan being paranoid? He might be right.

"Watch his behavior, woman! Watch for the salesman behind the façade. And don't bother me again! I'm indisposed!" The line clicked and Trista went back out.

He was smiling at her and Trista tried to maintain the same behavior as before.

"So you say," She began, watching him casually. "That they have the technology to erase memories? What about creating them?" He seemed puzzled.

"Well, I suppose. They may have been experimenting with duplication of brainwaves. You isolate the memories of a person who knows a certain skill or knowledge, then simply replicate those connections and patterns in the brain of someone else." Trista nodded.

"So they could give you false memories?" He looked at her a moment. Trista shifted to the left and waited, a moment later he shifted to the left as well.

"I don't know what they can do. If they can duplicate memories they could give someone a college level education in an instant, mastery of a skill, years of experience. They could make people geniuses." Trista crossed her arms an waited.

"Or they could make people think what they want them to think, believe what they want them to believe." When he crossed his arms too, she knew. He was pacing her. Subtly copying her, becoming a reflection to put her at ease and get her to trust him.

"I suppose that may be true." He smiled. No disagreement. Safe and easy way out.

"What about the hundreds of brain damaged people rescued from the Gotham headquarters. Some of them were incapable of speech. Were these the human sacrifices?" He made no change to his demeanor.

"Some of them, perhaps. Volunteers for the progress of technology."

"Or victims of technology. If their memories could have been altered or erased, wouldn't that make consent invalid? How would you know who volunteered and who was simply picked out for some other reason. Punishment maybe?" He leaned back, breaking his mirror image of her, his smile faded the slightest.

"I guess we can't know." Trista leaned back, imitating him now.

"I guess not. So what about Zenon. Have you met him?" Richard's smile vanished and he seemed to look at Trista differently.

"I have seen him from a distance but I've never spoken with him. Only a select few have that privilege. He is a brilliant man." Trista shrugged slightly and she could see the spark of anger behind his eyes.

"Genius is one thing, living god is another. Do you think he is the scion of Zeus? That he is divine?" He seemed to struggle with this. It was as if he felt he were being watched, that what he said might be heard by someone dangerous.

"I don't know what to believe. I believe he is the greatest mind in history, that he will move all of humanity toward a brighter future. I believe he can do this. I believe anyone capable of such a feat is extraordinary, divine or not." Trista nodded, appreciatively.

"Adolf Hitler moved humanity too. He did what he believed was for the greater good of the human race and moved beyond good and evil, or so he thought. We all know how that turned out." Richard's face was stone blank.

"If that's how you want to see it. Hitler was a fascist megalomaniac, not a scientist. Not a philosopher. He rose to power by appealing to the worst in people. Maxim brings out the best in us. He took me in when I was scum, and he reshaped me into a good man. Who else can do such a thing for people?" Trista set her phone behind her in her seat casually. She had set it to call the phone she had lifted off the IND which was in her car.

"You believe that, but what if they MADE you believe it? What if they gave you a future by taking away your free will? Is that a fair trade?" Richard said nothing.

"Well, I think I have enough here. Thank you for speaking with me. I'll let you know if I need anything further." She packed her things and left the phone on the seat behind her.

In the car, she listened to her phone. Steps. The click of a receiver.

"This is Richard. She just left. Classification SP. Threat level, orange. License plate 2JL 49BW, Trista Martin, Regal Suites Hotel, Gotham City, room 305." Trista jumped at that. He knew where she lived? She hung up and went back to the door. Richard opened the door with obvious confusion.

"Sorry," Trista said with feigned exasperation.

"Forgot my phone." She went to her seat and grabbed it, showing it to Richard with a smile. He said nothing, only watched her leave.

All the way back to Gotham, Trista was looking over her shoulder. Anyone who's eyes lingered on her too long may have been a cultist following her. The stories she read about ex-members being harassed to the point of suicide and critics being followed and black mailed came back to her. She was getting paranoid.

"A paranoid is just someone in possession of all the facts." She muttered to herself, something Daniel always said. The TODS were still in operation, even with their messiah in Arkham. But did that change them? Is Derick Rodham continuing Zenon's vision, or is he turning it to his own ends? What is the goal of the Temple of the Divine Spark? Trista needed more information before she could face Zenon himself. He is a master of manipulation and she had to be ready to cut through the bullshit with him. She needed to find one of the ex-members who went into hiding. And she needed to make sure the cultists weren't following her. She would have to get Daniel's help.

As soon as she got back to the hotel she rented a different room under a different name and paid for both rooms. She would be moving her things from one room to the other gradually to throw them off. When she got back to her room she could tell it had been entered. They cleaned up and made the bed like a room cleaner would but her things had been moved, something the staff never did. Anger flared up in her and Trista checked her things to make sure nothing was taken. She grabbed her laptop and called a cab, heading for Tommy's place.

"What did I tell you about these people? Fucking cock sucking fascists!" Daniel was stomping around the room while the scanner was working on Trista's computer.

"Who the hell do they think they are? The CIA? Fucking black ops bullshit from a bunch of brain damaged technophiles!" He was waving a paper around, the words 'Cease and Desist' on the header.

"They think they can obstruct the free press with this shit?! They think I'll roll over and back off like those other gutless swine who dare to call themselves journalists?! They are fucking with the Duke of Bastards now!" Trista felt a little better listening to him rage. For the first time she was glad he was here. Dealing with psychopaths is Trista's forte, dealing with shadowy cabals was more Daniel's style.

"What about finding one of the ex-members? Can your contacts in the press locate them?" Dan seemed to have forgotten she was there. He blinked at her a moment.

"Of course. I'm a Doctor of Journalism, woman! Nothing is beyond my reach." He looked at the letter again and crumpled it up before throwing it out the window like a fast ball.

"I'll tell those fuckers to send their next litigation on 4 ply so I can wipe my ass with it!" The computer made a noise and the scan had found several spyware programs.

"What ever they put on here is gone now. They really want to make sure we don't say anything about them."

"Of course!" Dan shouted, pointing a finger at Trista. "Theocratic fascists have no respect for the truth! They don't want to enlighten people, they want to control them! They don't want you to understand them, they want you to obey them! These are the archenemies of journalism!" Trista shut down her computer and packed it up.

"Let me know when you have a lead on one of the ex-members. I'll be going over the Arkham files." She left Daniel to fume and think while she called a cab.

Trista left Gotham for the second time, this time heading for New York, Gotham's older brother. Dan had found one of the cultists hiding in a broom closet and stomped him before swiping his phone and kicking him to the curb. They now had a list of contacts within the church as well as a calendar of their activities. They had Trista's license plate and car model so she borrowed a car from a friend of Tommy's and drove north to New York in a huge white Cadillac town car. Kathryn McKinney left the TODS a few years before the raid on its headquarters. It took 3 years for her story to come out after years of legal fees, harassment, and threats. It seemed like no one was willing to run the story until the news broke of the raid on their headquarters. After that there was a bidding war for the rights to the story and Kathryn was sent into witness protection after an attempt was made on her life. She was living in the mountains of New York near Tuxedo in a cabin. The first thing Trista noticed was the hundreds of notes covering every appliance and door. Reminders, names, rent amounts, numbers. There was no car in the driveway. Kathryn was about 10 years older than Trista with salt and paprika hair tied back in a bun. Her hands shook the slightest bit.

"I'm sure you noticed my notes." She said, motioning to the room. "I have memory problems. Forgive me if I repeat myself or forget your questions." Trista smiled sadly and said it was no problem.

"My long term memory is fine, its just the short term that comes and goes. Usually Olga is here, she's my helper, but she had to be somewhere today." Trista sat back in the recliner, recorder in one hand.

"Were your memory problems caused by the Zeus Cult?" She nodded, wincing slightly. "Among other things. I had undergone ECT to improve my memory and brain functions when I was a member. It was amazing at first. I could remember anything I wanted, the color of the wrapping paper at my first Christmas, or the taste of my mother's breast milk. Answers came fast without even thinking. I felt like a computer. It wasn't until later the side effects became serious. I started having seizures. I would get migraines for days at a time. When I brought it up with the Temple they simply told me the ECT was still under development and that my side effects would be noted for future testing. That was it. They put me back to work with a new pain killing electrode and that's all. I started having memory problems just before I left the Temple."

She took a moment to look at her notes and looked up at Trista with confusion. "I'm sorry, I lost my train of thought. What question were we on?" Trista smiled sympathetically.

"What drew you to the Temple?" Kathryn nodded with a smile. "Oh right. I'm sorry, I have short term memory problems. Forgive me if I repeat myself or forget your questions. I was a student at Gotham University. I was studying Physics and Computer Science. I came to GU from Montana because I knew Maximillian Zenon had taught here and I was a great admirer of his. I received an invitation to Olympus Tower I thought it would be for a lecture or seminar. Instead it was like a religious revival. They had this huge stage set up with tesla coils and faraday cages. We were all given touch screen tablets, something that wasn't even on the market at that time. It was like stepping into the future. There were various speakers who talked about the philosophy of science and electricity, metaphysics, and the origin of life. I had never been a religious person even before I became strictly Atheist, but this wasn't like the religions I'd known. This was modern, logical, scientific. I felt an amazing surge of energy and connection with their words and the cheers of the crowd. I felt whole. After that I joined up and never looked back."

Trista finally started to see the appeal of this cult. A group which reaches out to the disaffected atheists and agnostics created by the outdated religions of the world. A religion of science, math, and futurism. It was the same tactics of the cults in the 70's. The youth culture was sick to death of the militaristic Christian totalitarianism that rose up after WW2. They wanted anything new, anything unstructured and unusual. So the eastern gurus descended on the land, teaching free love, psychedelic drugs, and anti-materialism. Now we see those pot heads for the immature perverts they were, but our disillusion with organized religion turned to cynicism and we became antitheists, or casual house wife spiritualists. In an increasingly secular world, a religion that embraces technology, science, and modern ideals is a unique opportunity for our generation. Or at least it seemed that way.

"So did you know you were being experimented on? Did they inform you of the risks?" Kathryn shook her head.

"When you join them, your loyalty and consent is expected. They shouldn't HAVE to tell you the risks, because they expect you to do it for the greater good. If I were to object or ask too many questions, they would turn on me. Peer pressure is a powerful thing. It was a bigger risk for me at the time to object than to question. Of course now I wish I had." She looked out the window, which had several notes taped to it. "I can't even drive a car anymore, because of my seizers. I'll need medication and support for the rest of my life. I can't even finish my degree because I'd just forget what I studied in the middle of the test." She was crying now, and Trista felt her throat tighten and her eyes getting hot. She shook her head.

"I'm very sorry." Kathryn looked at her, surprised.

"Sorry for what?" She looked at Trista for a moment and her smile faded. "I'm sorry, I think I lost my train of thought." She wiped the tears off her cheeks and looked at them with confusion. "Must be my allergies again. Sorry about that. Where were we? I think I might have been in the middle of answering a question. I'm sorry about that. I have short term memory problems so forgive me if I repeat myself or forget your questions." Trista sighed with a smile and told her something had come up and they would have to reschedule the interview.

Dr. Deegan met Trista at the entrance to the SCP wing.

"Today's the day, yes?" He smiled his dentist smile and watched her behind dark glasses. As they walked he spoke without looking at her.

"I must say, he has taken an interest in you, as have his people." Trista almost stopped.

"How could he have known I wanted to speak with him?" She looked at Dr. Deegan distrustfully but his smile never waivered.

"In exchange for cooperation and technical support, we allow him the occasional communication with his people. These are of course monitored and recorded. It seems you've caused quite a stir in their ranks." His smile seemed to widen and Trista had to look away from him.

"Seems kind of compromising to allow someone undergoing mental treatment to communicate with his victims." Trista watched him out of the corner of her eye but Dr. Deegan didn't seem to notice her criticism.

"Our treatment program is experimental and quite progressive compared with the typical treatments. When dealing with unique minds, it is necessary to employ unique methods. You understand, yes?" They reached the door to his cell, the monitor showing the inside was dark. Dr. Deegan turned to Trista and his smile retreated to an unnerving grin.

"Before you enter you must understand something. Maximillian is not a dangerous man, at least not in a physical sense. He may say things which may disturb you in many ways, he may do things which seem innocent but may later prove to be serious. I will need any and all electrical devices on your person, they will be kept safe until you are finished." Trista was a little annoyed at being treated like an amatuer. She handed him her phone and recorder, leaving the one she had taken from the IND in her back pocket.

"will our session be recorded in your files? I'll need access to it if I can't bring my own recording device." Deegan's smile widened.

"Of course. You must understand, these measures are for your safety. Only a few months before, there were electrical problems in his room. Nothing serious, some exposed wire, a shorted out fan. One day the orderlies saw water seeping from underneath the door. When they opened the door they found Zenon sitting in the lotus position in the center of the room in the middle of a growing puddle from a sink which was overflowing. When the orderlies tried to get his attention he was unresponsive at first, but when he opened his eyes they said the whites of his eyes were glowing blue. He told them not to approach the altar or they would feel the wrath of Zeus. One of them went in to get him and the moment he touched the puddle on the floor he received a massive electric shock which stopped his heart and he fell over dead. He other man ran away. When the maintenance crew came they tested the voltage of the water Zenon had been sitting in, it showed over 2000 volts of electricity traveling through it. After we cut the power and removed Zenon, we found he had been removing lengths of wire from various outlets and devices within the cell until he had enough to reach the center of the room. He then rerouted many of the circuits to increase the voltage. For what purpose, we can only speculate. My point is, Ms. Martin, his is a dangerous mind. We have x-rays, showing several foreign objects and wires within his body, perhaps designed to protect his vital organs from electric shock, or to store or manipulate it in ways only he may understand. Caution is advised, Ms. Martin."

Trista looked at him with uncertainty before turning to the cell door, reasserting her confidence before entering. The inside was pitch black, the only light came from the open door which cast a long rectangle of light across an empty room devoid of furniture. Zenon sat cross-legged at the back of the room just outside the rectangle of light.

"Ah, a pilgrim. Approach us." His voice was like sandpaper, the rarely used voice of a hermit. All around on the floor Trista could see mathematic formulas scratched into the floor, impossibly complex and covering everything the light illuminated.

"Max, would you kindly light the room for the young lady." Deegan spoke from the doorway, a dark silhouette. Zenon moved and the lights faded on. Zenon looked dried out, he wore a simple robe around his waist and Trista saw the network of reddish brown patterns across his skin, like roots. She could also see several spots which seemed to be holes, like the ports on a computer. He looked at her with an empty calm, not like the cold emptiness of Zasaz, but more like a man who was half-asleep. He seemed not to see her, instead looking straight ahead as though in a trance. Dr. Deegan looked to Trista with a grin.

"Mr. Zenon has complete control of the devices within his cell, all with wireless connections made possible with the devices in his body. All except for the locks of course. Quite remarkable. We had to disconnect his cell from the usual systems after he proved impossible to keep out. If you require assistance you need only knock at the door, an orderly will be there to assist you." He glanced at Zenon who remained unchanged and turned to leave.

'Yea, look upon me and know me as I know thee. Thou seest before thee a man, bound and shackled to this place of reform; an asylum for the mentally fallacious whereupon treatment is administered for the benefit of those who fear the unfamiliar. Behold what I, a God, from fabricated God's endure. Look down upon my shame, the cruel wrong that wracks my frame, the grinding anguish which seeks to waste my strength. They hath devised these chains, the newly throned false potentates which reign over the world of man. The false idols of human society." Trista sat on the floor in front of him. He was tall, even sitting down, and she knew he preferred to look down at people.

"Do you understand why you've been imprisoned here?" Trista asked watching his eyes focus on her for the first time.

"For boons bestowed on mortal men I am straitened in these bonds. A God ye behold in bondage and pain, the vessel of Zeus and one at feud with all the false gods that find submissive entry to the tyrant's hall; mine fault, too great a love of humankind."

"So you believe you are helping people? Even the people you've hurt or destroyed? Was it all for their benefit?"

"Alas, all things are a burden save to rule over all; for none is free but Zeus. To that ye answers not for ye know it to be true. No doubt thou thinkest me infirm of mind. With such ease thine mind casts away that which it cannot fathom. Alas, thus it has been necessitated by one's own nature that the path which least resists thee shall be the only path ye walks."

"Why Zeus? Why does he work through you?" The barest hint of the smile came to him then.

"Thou seest before thee a man, but in truth, the man thou seest is merely a vessel. What layth within such a vessel if not the soul of a man? I aim to show thee how mine vessel hath become a celestial host to a divinity far beyond any human soul, how mine vessel was chosen to bring tidings of joy and the return of true human potential and pure spirituality. Draw closer and open thine ears to my tale."

In the beginning, there was the spark. Twas this spark which begat the electromagnetic connections, which begat attractions and links. Chemicals, acids and bases, reactions on a molecular scale, all coalescing and forming what can be called a human life. Cells powered by moving electrons and chemical reactions divide and replicate, working in tandem and through unity to form tissue, bones, organs, muscle, and eventually, humanity. Such was the genesis of mine vessel. A vessel crafted through centuries of genetic blending and attractions, in addition to favorable environment, to be granted the capability of withstanding and containing the awesome force of true divinity. Thus a child was born and named Maximillian Zenon by his parentage. Thus was the child raised and groomed to live life as a human. However, forces began to converge which sought to place the child in mortal peril. The child's father was himself a man of status in the world of men, yet had become consumed by madness and sought to inflict harm upon his offspring. Yea, so great was the father's irrationality that he believed his own children sought to betray and destroy him, seizing his power and prestige by his passing. Consumed with paranoia and fear, he began to murder his progeny one by one. The chosen child was spared only by the intervention of his loving mother, who would stealeth him away in the night before his father could terminate his existence. Once free of his filicidal father, the child traveled with his mother across lands vast and wide, long didst they seeketh refuge and safety. Weeks became months became years, the child grew and learned the ways of man. From a young age he displayed an interest in the sciences particularly those committed to the study of electricity."

Trista wasn't sure if he was telling the truth about this. If he is, then his life is eerily similar to the legend of Zeus. A father who murdered his own children only for one to survive and usurp him. It could be true, there wasn't much information on his family history.

"Upon becoming a man of age, the child had acquired great knowledge, accolades, and wealth amongst his peers. It was then the man sought out his treasonous father that he may pay for the crimes he had committed against his brethren. Yea, upon finding his forbearer, the man was loath to discover his father had sired more children since their parting and these offspring now stood in defense of their abhorrent father. Armed with the truth, the son waged war with the father in the realm of law, emerging after much strife and difficulty the victor. His father was to be bound within a penitentiary for his crimes, his accumulated wealth and estates were granted to the vindicated descendant and all justice hast been well served. Having been crowned a king among men, the young man returned to his study of the sciences and the power of electricity. These were the Halcion days, filled with peace, progress, and discovery. His reputation among men grew as his discoveries and inventions inspired awe among even the learned. Yet still something disquieted the man's sleep. Some purpose yet unrealized. He believed it could be found in his research and began experimenting in earnest. Years passed and still the revelation eluded him. He began taking long constitutionals beyond the clamor of the metropolitan, seeking the truth in solitude and inner reflection. Revelation struck him on one such constitutional. Whilst crossing an open field a surge of power exploded within him with a mighty peal of thunder. He had been struck by a bolt of lightning in the open air of an ordinary day. Struck by the mighty touch of nature itself, pushing thousands of volts of energy through him. He was thrown to the ground and apparently lay dead."

Trista had it then. The markings over his body, they were burns unique to lightning strike victims. As the electricity passed through the capillaries in the skin it causes them to burst and burn, resulting in painful scaring beneath the skin along the lines of those veins. That also explained his change in behavior. There have been cases of survivors of lightning strikes experiencing an unexplained change in character. One man, who had been a doctor, was compelled to play the piano and composed music, something he had never been interested in before. Trista felt her heart in her ears as she tried to contain her excitement. Zenon didn't seem to notice.

"For three days the all-seeing circle of the sun rose and fell, for three nights the curtain of stars drew across the sky, when on the third day the man rose and cried out, not in pain but in joy. The touch of the divine which a mortal man would slay had touched him and he yet lived. His body, though scorched, remaineth intact. His mind, though tangled, still looked upon the world with understanding. Upon his skin had been branded the mark of power, vast cracked lines split out from each other across his skin like the roots of a tree or the forks of a lightning bolt, red and shining. Something in his mind awakened then. He could sense an eye upon him staring straight down and cleanly through, seeing all that he was and everything he could ever be. Thus he spoke to the divine and thus the divine did speak in return. He was given clarity and understanding as no human had been given before. He knew the intricate complexities of existence and the vast power which connected it all; a power which he himself knew well and had named it electricity but now knew its true name; Zeus. He whom even the gods who are not his natural children address as Father, and all the gods of human history rise in his presence. He who inspired the fear and awe of man in every civilization and country on the globe from the nomadic primitive days to the days of enlightenment and progress. He who is the cause of life always to all things. He whom the romans called Jupiter, whom the Egyptians called Amon, whom the Etruscan called Tinia, whom the Phrygian named Sabazios, and whom the Hellenizing Jews named Ba'al Shamen."

"The temple which lay at the heart of this man had remained empty of any idol save the sciences, leaving it open and welcome to a true divinity the likes of which he had never imagined. Beside himself with joy and vitality, the man returned to his place of discovery and began creating miracles of science and power the likes of which humanity had never witnessed. Never had his mind been so clear, never had his answers come so quickly. He also discovered the touch of the divine had altered his body. He felt depthless energy within him at all times, so much so that he needeth only a short respite to recharge his spirit at night. This energy he felt within him made his body conduct an exorbitant amount of heat from which it felt no reprieve so that he had to devise ways to dissipate this heat lest it boil his insides. Thus he had developed a special system designed to absorb his body's excess heat, converting it into power to be stored for later use. Upon exploring these phenomena he found his body had become conductive of electricity, producing a charge heretofore impossible for the human body. With a mere touch he could power devices, raise the temperature of objects and generate and store electrical charge. Most astounding still, he found he had become immune to electric shock and could withstand contact with devastating voltage with no ill effect. His depths thus plumed and the fruits of his efforts harvested, the man now went back into the world of mortals to bestow these celestial gifts upon them."

This must be the disastrous Wayne Center conference, his last known public appearance before forming the temple. The footage of his strange behavior and speech were something of a cultural joke after it happened. Some claimed it was fatigue, others said he'd been suffering a flu at the time, most people just thought he'd gone crazy. Maybe they weren't too far off. Who the hell talks like this? How can anyone take someone so eccentric seriously. Trista shook her head and tried to focus on what he was saying

"There was then a great tumult and much rejoicing as he presented his innovations, but as the man began to speak the word of the divine which had blessed his heart the hearts of man drew back. The false idols of man's design had forged in them a great fear of truth and new ideas and they recoiled at the revelations the man presented them. They called him deceiver and fabricator. The miracles they had so readily embraced were now rejected and the man's heart did sink into despair. "It is not yet the right time." He said to his heart. "They do not understand. I am perhaps not the mouth for these ears." They looked upon the man and laughed and while they laughed they hated him too. Must one batter the ears of these men that they may learn to hear with their eyes? Must one clatter like kettledrums and preachers of repentance to be received? What is it that makes men proud? Education; that which distinguishes them from the sheep herds. Thus they dislike to hear of the knowable which they deem the unknowable. Thou academics who denyest that anything beyond the known can be known, and thou dogmatics who claimest to know all there is to know. With a heart heavy and a discouraged spirit the man returned to his solitude. Human life had grown uncanny and bereft of meaning. So heavy was the stone of disillusion upon his heart that he was nearly crushed by it. His heart had meant only to teach men the sense of their existence; that great truth which flashes like lightning from the dark cloud of the human soul. Alas, he was still far from them and his sense did not speak to their senses. Dark became the night and dark became the ways of Zeus."

The lights in the cell began to dim so Trista had to focus hard to make him out. He certainly knows theatrics.

"Lo the midnight of the soul doth approach, so sayeth the man to his divine patron, "O lord, how far hath humanity drifted into the vast quagmire of self-deception and folly? Is mine hope a folly? Shall mankind be doomed to drift beyond salvation? How can the ears of men be made to hear and their eyes be made to see? Many are the enemies of truth and much power they have amassed in thine absence. Prithy, grant me the way into the hearts of men that I might draw them back to the true potential of humanity." Thus spoke the man into the temple of his heart and in reply there did come the voice of power itself. "Yea, do not relinquish thine hope, humble vessel, for truth shall always and forever set the souls of mankind free. Thou goest to mankind with righteous intention yet thine mind thou hast failed to employ. Thou goest to them as a man, yet thou knowest thyself to be greater. The hearts of man would not be swayed by the words of a man, they must be swayed by the actions of a God. One must maketh thyself into a model by which man shall measure himself, by which man might judge himself." Yea, this would be his purpose and these would be the methods he was to use."

His eyes began to glow a light blue in the dim light. It was disturbing, unnatural. Trista could feel her chest tighten. There looked to be blue sparks just barely visible dancing across his skin. He was making her nervous.

"Thus didst the man change himself into one worthy of carrying a God within him. His body was made resplendent by technological means, his visage rendered otherworldly by devices of his own design. Thus transformed, his name would be changed as well. He now named himself Maxim Zeus. Thus the man truly created a vessel fit for Zeus himself and stepped into the world of men once more. Lo, this attempt would not be to walk amongst the academic and dogmatic, no. This time he would call out to those who are not invested in the status quo but rather suppressed by it. To those who work and toil for the false idols yet receive no recompense. And lo, Maxim did send out the call, to all the spiritually dissatisfied, to the unwanted bastard children of God, to those who truly believeth in the evolution of the human race. Lo, Maxim did go amongst the people and all eyes were affixed upon him. He spoke no words but went straight to his work. He came to a disheveled vagabond and spoke thus to him. "Thy mind hast betrayed thy life. Broken and poorly assembled hast thy God made of thy mind. Behold the true potential of thy life." And then did Maxim reach out to the man and touched lightly his despoiled brow. As the current passed from Maxim into the mind of him, wide became his eyes and slack became his jaw. As the connection was severed the man cried out in elation. Thus didst the fog lift from his chemically addled brain, thus was the man granted a moment of clarity. Not ceasing in his work, Maxim came next upon a man robbed of his sight. Then did Maxim approach the man and did place his hands to each side of the man's head. "Thou hast not eyes to see," Spoke Maxim. "Thus hast God and the medicines of man forsaken thee to darkness. Behold, one who understands the nature of the electric. Behold the power of one who does not shy away from truth, for it must be known that all that is magnetic is electric, and that even light is but a form of electric magnetism. Thine eyes are not absent, thine brain still functions, though thou canst perceive it, I assure you light remains in existence. What thy lacks is the electric signals which thy mind interprets. What thy lacks is the spark." And thus didst Maxim lay his hands aside the man's head and thus did the man exclaim loudly. Sight! Vision! His eyes once more did see. Now the crowd hath gathered around them and spoke in amazed wonder at the miracles Maxim hath shewd them. When he saw the eyes upon him he held out a hand that they might listen. Thus spoke Maxim Zeus to the enraptured about him.

"Hark, the mind of man hast lost all connection with the divine. No longer is the presence of God within their hearts. So far have they drifted from the holy sovereignty that they no longer fear God. Deities hold no sway over the minds of this age. The God they acknowledge is an absent God, a God which exists in theory alone and which has no power over the world. God is not an equation to be pondered by man; God is a force to be discovered by man through experiment and risk. Mankind had long ago buried God and now perceives the churches erected to Him as gravestones in memorium. Their belief now springs from convenience and sentiment alone. When the hand of Zeus did withdraw from the world of men so then did mankind find itself free of His dominion for the first time. Alas, so weak was the heart of mankind that they flouted this freedom and crafted for themselves a ruler of their own design; a monarch which watches over them from beyond sight and influence. The newly crafted God now sought to conquer man not through presence of authority and power but through the subjugation of the human spirit. A reversal of the morality and valuations of men was enacted by the new idols. No longer would man be free, nor encouraged, nor honest. All things a man can accomplish were taken away from this life and this world and placed in the next. Mankind had been made to suffer and kneel in this life that they may be truly free in the next. Man's life and spirit became an ignominy unto him, a thing to be hidden away and repressed. Man's freedom was chained to the stone of guilt and shame which called itself purity. Man's courage was stolen by grief and fear which named itself wisdom. And, crime of crimes, man's honesty was defiled by illusion and self-deception which wore the guise of faith. Now was action discouraged, now was boldness punished, now was life to become a penance paid for a wrong imposed upon the hearts of man by the false idols which man itself created. Thus is the way of the worst of all deities, which guides the will of man, not through power achieved through free, honest, courage, but through the collective dampening of the human spirit. Thus didst man deceive the heart of man into believing itself incapable of power in and of itself. Thus was man's only true purpose to be found in utter subjugation to the one true God. This," Zeus intoned, "was the poison with which the soul of humanity was now septic, and this was the true significance of Zeus' return. He would be a liberator to the self-enslaved. He would break the chains within the hearts and minds of all men and grant them passage to the long forgotten realms of human courage, spiritual freedom, and self-liberating honesty." Thus didst Maxim Zeus speak to the people and greatly didst they cheer and applaud. This was to be the first of Zeus' flock. This was to be his destiny delivered unto mankind. Zeus was to be a God of the modern age resurrected from an ancient age; a God which does not reject the progress of humanity and seeks the empowerment of the human spirit."

"From this first gathering did Maxim select his apostles. They would be the instruments by which Maxim was to draw more unto his flock. They would be the architects of Maxim's exhibitions, and from these exhibitions the curious became the devout. Maxim became the current which activated the light within their hearts and soon many hundred hearts were connected and powered thereby. Upon his apostles and faithful didst Maxim bestow gifts of progress; electrodes to empower their minds, batteries which drew power from their bodies which in turn powered electromagnets and stimulators; granting them energy and ability heretofore unknown to the human body. So quickly didst the flock of Zeus grow that it became necessary to expand not only the facilities but also the organization methods. Then was the Tower Olympus built and the Temple of the Divine Spark founded."

Trista felt compelled to say something, anything, if only to reassert her presence here. His act was getting to be overwhelming.

"Was Derrick Rodham among those apostles?" He looked to her blankly, breaking his trance and causing the lights to go back up slightly.

"Verily. He was one of those draw to me that day and remains mine most loyal apostle." Trista felt a bit more relaxed.

"So you think he will run the temple as you would? You don't think he might change it, turn it to his own ends?" A smile came to him them, a knowing, clever smile that was the first real flash of the man he once was Trista had seen.

"His will is mine own. His soul is synchronous with mine own. He does indeed turn it to his own will, for his will is mine own." Trista studied him for a moment. A thought came to her, a gut feeling. It danced just beyond her reach and she lost it when he resumed his story.

"Those who would bind me here and dissolve mine creed, they hath crafted deceptions in thy minds of my order. They name us cultists and zealots. They brand me extorter, a wolf in sheep's clothing, enslaver of men. How quickly doth the false idol accuse me of the very crimes it enacts upon the people. When the false idols create systems of hierarchy meant to subjugate and force the lower to climb up through the debasements and iniquities of those positioned above them to have any power, they call this capitalism. When the false idols place the charismatic and deceptive at their helms to take credit or blame accordingly, they call this democracy. When the false idols spread comfort and convenience to lull the populace into a trace of complacency and to make their minds susceptible to suggestion, they call this entertainment. When the false idols make dull the minds of the people by surrounding them with repetition and ostracizing or separating those who do not conform to this repetition, they call this culture. When the false idols demand action by entrenching the people into one group mind that they may base their lives only on the doctrines accepted by the group, this they call society. When the false idols give their people an ultimatum for commitment to their society, this they call social responsibility. These crimes the false idols have committed upon the people, yet because they do not call it criminal it is not a crime.

Trista shook her head. "What about all those brain damaged people? The ones left disabled and lobotomized by your experiments? If you don't think of it as a crime, why wipe their memories and send them off to different cities to wander the streets? Why do you control them? Why sacrifice those who trust you most?"

"Thou mayst accuse me of these crimes against the people of my order and unto you I sayeth, the end result of one's actions justifieth the means of one's actions. I taketh away the possessions of my devout in order to free them of being possessed. I enslaveth the devout in order that they may learn true freedom. I terrify them that they may learn courage. I separate them from their past that they might craft a future for themselves. I breaketh the spirits of men that they may be rebuilt and become fortified thereby. I crush them with guilt that they may know true pleasure beyond all guilt. I burden them with grief that they may know love beyond grief. I shame them into submission that they may understand the power of will to overcome all shame. I deceive them that they might better recognize truth behind all lies. I surround them with illusion that they may possess greater insight into the illusions of the world. I forge a cage of attachments about them that they may learn to shed all attachments and find true enlightenment. These things the false idols have declared as my crimes. They believe I am an enemy to my followers and to that I agree. I am their enemy that I might be their truest teacher. These crimes I commit against my people are committed openly and fairly. These crimes must be committed in order to break the hold of false idols and convenient belief on the hearts of men. I must be steadfast in my fight against the idols of false hope. I must defeat those who offer salvation through deception by offering salvation through destruction."

Trista didn't know what to say to that. Was it any more wrong than governments sending soldiers to die for them? Was it any different than people who gave their lives to a church or organization they believed in? It was wrong, but only on the small scale. The things men like Zenon attempt to create seem to move in a realm above right or wrong. It was just too big for Trista to judge. The lights faded back on and Zenon seemed drained.

"Alas, the hour grows late. Though I am bound here still, know that the faithful remain ever vigilant. Though the false idols have sent their champion, the Batman, against me to destroy all hope for my devout, know that my disciples continue in my absence. Though they hath branded me a traitor to mankind, know that those who know the truth shall set me free. The battle was lost yet the war goes on. Blessed is he whose transgression is public, whose sin is not covered. Blessed is the man unto whom Zeus imputeth iniquity, and in whose spirit there is much guile. Thus shall the meek inherit nothing, thus shall the greatness of man inherit all. Amen."

Zenon bowed his head and Trista stood to leave. "A moment, child." He spoke softly. "I would ask that thou grant me a boon. If thou excepts, we shall grant thee an illumination in exchange." Trista looked puzzled.

"What kind of boon?" She didn't know where he was going with this.

"You carry on your person an object which does not rightly belong thee. Though thou hast acquired this item innocently, we must ask that you return it to the Tower of Olympus that it may rejoin its brothers." Trista was shocked. She didn't think he could have known about the phone. She had only brought it as a bargaining tool if he proved to be unwilling. Trista nodded. At that, Zenon made a sweeping gesture with his hands, holding them out to her.

"We give thanks and accept thine word as truth. For our repayment, we require the object for only a moment." Trista hesitated. She didn't think he could do much with it, nothing that Dr. Deegan wouldn't be able to stop if he was watching, which she assumed he was. She pulled out the phone and dropped it into his hands without touching him, remembering the story of the orderly who'd been electrocuted. He held the phone aloft and pushed a few things on its screen. At that moment the lights went out and the room went silent. Trista stepped back. She could see the glow of his eyes in the blackness and they didn't move at all.

"This is for thine ears alone for Coeus hears all within his realm. Coeus hath taken dominion over all here, for he hath had them bestowed upon him by the creator and sustainer of Dikaiosyne. Coeus is not as he seems. Seekest thou the truth of the eyes. Seeketh the Mad Arab, Charon, defiler of death."

There came a bang on the door that made Trista jump. A muffled shout told her the guard outside was unable to open the lock. He must have disabled everything in the cell. She was trapped here. Ignoring the suffocating fear, she tried to listen to what he was telling her.

"Coeus hath spun a vast and deadly web. He seeks to bring the Keres to Gotham. He believeth Deimos, Pothos, and Aitee are his tools that he might awaken the soul of Lyssa within us all. Dolos hath replaced Eris whom knows of Coeus' plot and hath conspired with our humble vessel as well as Achlys, Menoetius, Phobos, and Hecate to weave the strings of discord throughout. Consider this warning my repayment. Leave this place. Leave Gotham before it sinks beneath the morass, like Atlantis before it."

Trista felt her brain scrambling to remember everything he'd said as the lights came back up. She blinked at the brightness a moment before seeing the phone on the ground before Zenon, who sat in his lotus position once again. She scooped it up and pocketed it just as the guard opened the cell door.

Trista was expecting Dr. Deegan to be angry about the phone she had, or at least surprised. Instead he seemed even more excited. He lead her out and asked for a copy of the article wen she finished. Trista felt numb. Overwhelmed. What as he talking about? Why did he have to make sure Deegan didn't hear him tell her that? None of what he said made any sense. Those names were from Greek mythology, that much was true. The instant she was away from Deegan, she grabbed a pen and paper and tried to write down everything he said as best as she could remember it. Once outside she took a deep breath and tried to calm herself. This was turning from a research project into a covert ops mission. She wasn't sure she appreciated that. She took out the phone he wanted her to return. It didn't seem different. She took a cab to Olympus Tower to get rid of it before she forgot to.

At the tower, a guard who had to have been 7 feet tall greeted her in the lobby. He reminded her of Croc slightly, that quite menace that triggered her fight or flight reflex. As soon as she took the phone out a look of shock came over him and he immediately made a call to someone. Trista tried to hand him the phone but he refused to even touch it, looking at it the way a devout believer looks at a sacred relic. Within moments two men in dark suits appeared with a metal case. Trista gave them the phone and they seemed to have the same sense of awe about it as they locked it in the case and thanked her profusely. The huge guard continued to look at her like a celebrity as she turned to leave, feeling thoroughly confused. It was when she was walking down the steps to the street that something struck her. That fleeting idea she'd had in Zenon's cell, that one she didn't grasp. She was wondering to herself if the guard had had his memories altered like the others when Zenon's words came to her. "His will is mine own. His soul is synchronous with mine own." They can alter a person's memories, change and insert new ones. Could they duplicate Zenon's memories and personality and alter the mind of another to reflect it? Is Rodham no longer Rodham, but Zenon? Has Zenon created a kind of immortality? She had to sit down. Her heart was racing as the immensity of this possibility dawned on her. She almost couldn't believe it. She had to set it aside with the other questions, like what the hell was up with that phone she'd given them? What the hell was Zenon trying to tell her back there? It was just too much to process and she had other things to worry about. For now, she needed food and sleep. Maybe something to take her mind off it. Anything.


End file.
